Blessings
by iambbq
Summary: A glimpse at the lives of the Knightleys after the novel...
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

"Mama..." the little girl suddenly turned to her mother and spoke.

"Yes, Grace..." answered the tender voice of her mother, whose gratified gaze had shifted from her infant son to her firstborn child with equalled gratification.

For several rare silent moments, two-year-old Grace Isabella Knightley was sitting contentedly by her mother on the settee, pressing her plump pink cheek on the soft skin of her mother's arm, looping one chubby hand through the crook of her mother's elegant elbow, drawing circles with her small fingers on the bare sole of her little brother's very little feet. Her luminous hazel eyes had been captured by the rhythmic suckling motion of the baby's mouth on their mother's breast, but, now, the fascination no longer held her attention, and the two-year-old decided that it was time to slide off the settee onto her feet.

"Has William's hair grown since this morning?" asked the child with keen interest.

Her mother's beautiful eyes sparked in amusement, but she immediately curbed the tinkles on her lips and spoke to her daughter in a serious tone, "I do not know, Grace. Shall we see?"

The child nodded resolutely and proceeded to remove, with the intent care of a two-year-old and the help of her mother, the ruffled brim cap from the baby's head.

But as soon as she saw the scalp of her younger sibling, "Still the _same_!" little Grace frowned. "Will William's hair _ever_ grow, Mama?" she asked impatiently of her mother.

As the grip from the baby's mouth on her breast had unfastened, which meant that her infant son had taken in enough nourishment for one meal, Grace's mother, the adored Mrs Emma Knightley, the mistress of Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, straightened her gown and corset dexterously, clasping her son in an upright position and resting his head on her shoulder with a soft cloth in between, began stroking William's back in gentle motions, all the while looking lovingly, and amusingly, into her daughter's eyes.

"Why, Grace," she raised a teasing eyebrow, "you do not like William the way he is?"

"Of course I like William, Mama!" Grace declared eagerly. "But Nurse would not let me brush his hair!" The two-year-old pouted.

"And did she tell you why?" her mother calmly inquired.

"She said William's head too delicate, and his hair too soft and short for me to brush!" exasperated the two-year-old, folding her arms crossly (but adorably in her mother's eyes) over her chest.

"Nurse is right, Grace," remarked her mother, "Infants are very delicate, particularly their heads and their necks. They should be handled only with the utmost care."

"But Mama..." the little girl appealed, "I have learnt to tie the strings on his dress, very nicely and loosely, as you have taught me. Nurse let me tied the strings on his clothes this morning! Why cannot I brush his hair?"

"So you _were _the one who tied William's dress this morning!" Emma was impressed, and her proud smile caused her daughter's heart to skip.

"Yes, Mama, I did it! I did it _all_ by myself, Nurse just stood and watched!" The two-year-old was bouncing on her feet.

"I am very proud of you, Grace! How excellently you did! It was tied perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, two fingers could slip under each string!"

With one hand still securely clasping her infant son to her person and the other cupping her daughter's glowing cheeks, Emma gently pulled Grace towards her to plant a kiss on her tiny lips.

"Thank you, Mama!" Grace beamed triumphantly at her mother. Yet, the little one had not forgotten, "But when can I brush William's hair?"

Emma was thoughtful before she answered.

"Grace..."

"Yes, Mama..."

"Do you recall what William had looked like when he was born?"

"When he came out of your belly he looked like a dried plum, Mama, just like Grandpapa!" the innocent child replied.

A hearty laugher burst out of her mother.

"Indeed..." her joviality joggling the baby in her arms, "he _did_ look like a shrivelled plum... _and_ Grandpapa..." Emma finally had her chuckles stifled, "But how does he look to you now?"

"Humph..." Scrutinizing the baby, Grace traced her small fingers on William's back, then down to his buttock before trailing them up to his delicate head.

"He looks like the moon, Mama!" decided the child.

"The _moon_?" her mother was surprised.

"Yes, the moon, Mama! William's bottom and head are so round and shiny... and smooth..."

"That _is_ true, Grace, it is very observant of you!" Her mother was very pleased. "William's bottom and head are indeed round and shiny and smooth..."

"And soft, Mama, William is very soft!"

"Yes, he _is_ very soft!" Emma smiled lovingly at her daughter and gave her son a tender squeeze.

"So, after two months," the mother continued, "William has grown from a dried plum to a moon, don't you think that is _quite_ an improvement? And have you noticed that his soft hair has grown thicker since his birth?"

Grace took another long look at her brother's scalp.

"I suppose... his hair... has grown..." she confessed reluctantly. "But, Mama, it is _not_ enough!" the child protested, "I want to dress him, wash him, and _brush_ his hair..."

"In the same way you dress, wash, and brush your dolls?"

The sweet child grinned and gave her mother a determined nod. "And love him, Mama! I want to love William!" the big sister added enthusiastically.

"But there are many ways to love William besides brushing his hair, Grace."

The two-year-old went silent, her inquisitive eyes awaiting her mother.

"You could show that you love William by being kind and gentle to him," revealed the mother.

Little Grace's mind churned, her hazel eyes sparkled. Climbing her way back onto the settee, the two-year-old stood next to her mother, "Is it like _this, _Mama?" and extended one chubby hand to smooth the baby's very fine hair and caress his face with lightness that only feathers could compare.

Thrilled by the encouraging smile on her mother's lovely face, Grace then bent her dimpled knees, leaning gingerly into her brother, and asked, "And like _this_?"

The big sister, planting indulgent kisses on her baby brother's forehead and nose, whispered into his ear, "I love you, William!"

In moments like this, no word could express the contentment swelling within the mother of these two small children. Emma reached her hand for her oldest child, tucking her close to her and her infant son, pressing the most tender of kisses on Grace's rosebud lips, telling her, "I love you, Grace!"

And the two-year-old threw her arms eagerly round her mother and baby brother, thoroughly abandoning her hushed tender voice, declaring to her mother – and – to the world, "I _love_ you, Mama!"

* * *

_A/N: So, I've been taking a break from Young Emma to work on this. This is a short story, only a few chapters long, but it's something that I've been wanting to write for more than a year._

_Hi Serena – If you are reading this story, I hope you would enjoy it… it doesn't have the drama that you've suggested, but it's something that's close to my heart. I will be going back to Young Emma as soon as this is complete._

_As always, thank you all for reading! :-)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

"Catch me, Lucy... come catch me!"

Coltish giggles, dancing wet curls, and the unusual agility of a half-naked two-year-old were running wild in Grace Isabella Knightley's room. Sprightliness and songlike teasing romped through the chamber's nooks and niches by the blithe child's footprints.

"Miss Grace, pray... let me put your dress on..." begged Lucy the young maid, who had just given her master and mistress's daughter a bath, scrubbing clean the dirt crusted child after an excursion in the garden and a wrestle with the garden frog, scarcely had enough time to dry her young mistress before the slippery child slipped away from her hands.

"Come get me, Lucy... I am here..."

Dashing from behind the curtains and under the four-post bed the little girl went. Frantically, Lucy dropped every piece of the child's garments on top of the pillows, sinking onto the floor to crawl under the bed. Unfortunately, the maid was far too slow for the cunning child, and the two-year-old was far too frisky for the maid to snatch, poor Lucy was stuck half way under the bed when the little rapscallion had come out from the other side and ran to the window.

"Come, Lucy... I am over _here_..."

Laughter of the animated child was bounding wall to wall, but the sound of the door handle turning did not escape the sharp hearing of the ebullient child. For one silent moment the two-year-old stilled herself to a sudden halt, and when through the opened door a graceful figure entering in, the stilled child turned into a blazing rocket and flew all the way to the door.

"Papa!" with one practiced leap, the shrieking child was in her father's arms.

"You are home, Papa! You are home!" The little rocket could not be stopped, "I missed you, Papa! I missed you!" and she scattered numerous kisses on her father's lips, his temples, and his cheeks.

"I missed you too, Grace!" pressing many sound kisses on his daughter's cheeks, her father, the esteemed Mr George Knightley, the Master of Donwell, was chuckling joyously by the abundance of his daughter's affection.

"But what was all the noise that I heard at the foot of the stairs?" the father was still chuckling when he pulled his child a little away to ask, "And why are you undressed?"

As the father had fully anticipated, there was an impish wide grin on his daughter's face.

"Lucy couldn't catch me, Papa!" the two-year-old answered, and the father shook his head with great amusement as he watched the wide grin on his child grew even wider.

"I am sorry, Sir!" Red-faced Lucy had at last freed herself from under the bed; she quickly grabbed a small blanket and hurried to her master's side.

"It is quite all right, Lucy," Mr Knightley smiled, "I dare say had there been two of you, it still would have been impossible to dress my child."

Though the master had said it out of kindness to ease the embarrassment in the maid, every word he had just spoken was true – for his dearly loved daughter bore a great resemblance to his darling wife, not only in the brilliance of his wife's true hazel eyes and the angelic features of her beautiful face, every trace of the liveliness and mischievousness in his wife he could see clearly in their firstborn child. And much like her mother when she was at the same tender age, at two and a half years of age, little Grace had yet to willingly place herself under submission to anyone except her mother. And what was more, even when their daughter was still in her mother's womb, this father had already given his heart to their unborn child in its entirety, just like he had completely surrendered his heart to his wife long before he realised that he was hopelessly in love with her.

An incomprehensible contentment was overwhelming this most fortunate man. Mr Knightley quietly reached for the blanket in Lucy's hand and wrapped it round the bundle of blessings in his arms.

The father turned to look into his daughter's gleaming eyes, hardly able to suppress the indulging quirks on his lips, "You would not be hiding from Lucy had your mother been here, would you?" he gave her small nose an affectionate squeeze.

As soon as her father's gentle pinch eased, Grace crinkled her little nose and rubbed it until it was red. She smiled her milk-toothy smile at her father, "But Mama is suckling William, Papa! Mama cannot come when William is hungry. And William is _always_ hungry!" and she gave him a wink with her bright round eyes and long lashes.

The father rolled his twinkling eyes, "Just like the way you were _always _hungry when you were an infant!" he teased.

"Surely not, Papa!" the child protested with a blatant grin, now it was her turn to squeeze her father's nose.

"Surely yes, Grace Isabella Knightley!" the father stood his teasing ground, rubbing his red nose against his daughter's much smaller one until she giggled.

"No, no, no! I was not!" the giggling child insisted in her faux innocence.

Determined to make an honest child out of his mischievous tot, the father decided to employ his most potent artillery...

_Tickles! _

It was another endearing trait that his daughter had taken after his wife. At the slightest of a titillating touch, both child and mother would come surrendering to the father and the husband.

"Oh, you certainly were!" the father countered with a wicked grin and began drumming tingling fingers on the small protruding belly of his daughter, instantly bringing convulsive writhes to the wriggling tot.

"_Pa... Pa...pa! It... tic...tickles_..." Giggles of the little one soon turned hysterical, "_S... stop... Pa...pa... s... stop_..." she begged.

"Not until you admit the truth!" the father was laughing unrestrainedly as well. The small blanket round the child had fallen to the floor, clamping his squirming-like-mad daughter tightly to keep her from slipping off his arms, "Were you or were not you _always _hungry like William?" he demanded.

"_No...no_..." flopping to and fro, left and right, "_I... was... not.._." the guffawing child still would not concede.

Such continual denial had rendered the father little choice but to intensify his attack.

At the rapid strokes of his crawly fingers on the tot's protruding belly, "_Pa...pa... s...s...stop... s... stop_..." the stubborn two-year-old seemed ready to give in.

"Tell me the truth then!" the laughing father pressed again, "Were you or were not you _always _hungry like William?"

Still giggling uncontrollably, "_I... was... Papa... I was... al-always... hungry... like... like... William_..." the floundering child finally confessed.

And the attack ceased.

Trails of boisterous giggles were still pulsating in the chamber, both father and daughter were breathing hard to catch their breaths; happy tears were dripping from the two-year-old, even the eyes of the gentleman father were dampened from his fervent laughter.

And when their racing hearts resumed reasonable pace, the father dabbed his daughter's wet rosy cheeks with his thumb and asked, "Are you off to see Grandpapa soon?"

"Hum, hum," Grace nodded, cupping her father's face in her small hands. "Mama and I are going to see Grandpapa very soon!"

"You had better get dressed, Grace!" said the father, and with remarkable twinkling eyes and a knowing look he added, "You know what Grandpapa would say if he saw your state of undress?"

The eyes of the little rapscallion twinkled just like her father's, she twisted her adorable face into a frown composed of a mixture of kindness, indulgence, grace, and old age (or simply, the picture of her grandfather in her callow mind), lowered her childish voice to imitate someone thirty folds her age and replied, "You shall catch_ cold _in so little dress!"

And once again, both father and daughter burst into more merry laughter!

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for your reviews in the last chapter! And thank you for reading! :) Next chapter... __Emma and Mr Knightley..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

The door of the nursery was left ajar. Slowly, and very quietly, he widened the opening of the door. Without making a sound and before walking in, he peered into the room, and instantly, his senses were greeted by soothing tranquillity. The peace and calmness in the room were indubitably an ointment to his soul, but the object of his heart's true contentment was not the serenity of his domain, but the marvel standing serenely by the infant crib.

The white cambric curtains were swaying lazily in the summer aromatic breeze. The filtered sunlight of a warm August day was painting sparkles on the window sill and the oaken floor. And in between the window and the floor, the same seraphic light was gently stroking the beauteous locks of his marvel, his awe, his veneration.

He was pleased to see that she had pinned her hair up loosely, rather than hiding them under a cap, and adorned it with the emerald comb that he acquired for her in his last journey. The way the ethereal sunlight illuminating the tendrils fallen from her hairpins, grazing the smoothness of her elegant neck, caressing the enchanting curves of her graceful figure was made for a heavenly sight! His heart skipped at the sight of his lover, and he could not take his eyes off of her. He had loved looking at her long before she was his to look at, and each day that passed, had only made his thirst for her sight stronger, his love for her deeper.

This most sensible, most fortunate, most deeply-in-love man could no longer stand there at the door, his feet followed the command of his eyes and the desire of his heart, and treaded quietly to where the heavenly light was shining upon his heavenly sight.

With the swiftness of a swordsman wielding his sabre but the gentleness and skill of a horticulturist nursing a delicate flower, the husband swept the alluring waist of his wife, wrapping her tenderly in his arms, burying his face in the elegant turn of her neck, indulging in the sweet lavender scent of her hair, her person.

She did not notice him entering in; it was her back which had been facing the door all this time. Though the sound of her husband walking into the nursery had escaped her, for she was completely absorbed by the cherubic sight of their slumbering son, his strong arms, his masculine aura, his devoted love were instantly recognized the moment he engulfed her.

The sensation of his embrace, the surging warmth in his secured arms, the musky scent of her husband that coddled her nostrils, and his sensual lips scattering kisses on her neck had such an instantaneously heady effect on the wife that she simply shut her eyes, exhaled luxuriously, and indulged herself in her lover's cradle.

It had taken some time and much of his self-restrains to tear his lips from her downy skin, but the father in him was equally anxious to see his infant son. After a trail of kisses floating up from the base of her neck to the corner of her lips and to her porcelain eyelid, the husband pressed his cheek affectionately on his wife's temple, inhaled deeply her alluring scent again, and then opened his eyes to the first sight of their son in a fortnight.

Just as the husband was spellbound at the sight of his beloved wife, the father was immediately captivated by the cherub sleeping in the crib. Adoring sparkles were shining through his eyes and the most affectionate of smiles had taken over his features. Standing there wordlessly and in each other's arms, sharing the deepest of love in mankind, for their family and for one another, both father and mother gazed lovingly at their son. They were greatly amused by the suckling motion of their son's mouth, as if the babe was partaking nourishment from his mother in his slumber. For a long moment, the contented silence was simply enough to the couple, until the dulcet voice of the wife broke it tenderly…

"William is looking more like you every day, George!"

She had kept her eyes on their son, and so had he.

"You should see his eyes when he awakes – he has your brilliant dark eyes, and the dimples on his face when he smiles look just like yours!"

Even without looking at her lovely face, he could tell she was smiling the most beautiful smile.

He clasped her even closer to him and lowered his voice to almost a hush, "Has our son been treating you well, Emma?"

"Hum, hum," she had uttered these two syllables with tenderness and a very small nod, careful not to remove her temple from his cheek.

After another prolonged gaze at the wonderment in the crib, "William is" she finally added, however, with a slightly troubled tone, "so... different from Grace, George..."

"Well," the husband's mouth quirked, "I would expect that should be the case, my love. After all, he _is _a boy!"

"_No…" _she protested softly, "that is not what I meant…"

"You meant he had far less hair than Grace when she was born?"

"_No!"_ she cried, keeping her voice low, pinching the hands that wrapped around her (and there was a quiet yelp coming out of him!).

"Stop teasing me, George…" she demanded a little more firmly, and was about to extricate herself from his cradle to turn around.

He stopped her in time from escaping his arms and held her even tighter to make amend.

"I am sorry, Emma!" the husband repented sincerely, willing to be complaisant. "You mean he does not cry as Grace used to?"

She nodded with a frown, as if a shadow had moved over her, casting away the tranquillity and taking her mind on a swift turn, "He seldom cries, George!" and she sounded anxious.

"Is it so bad that our son seldom cries?" he asked, matching her anxiety with calmness.

"No..." she murmured, "but... he is so… different... from Grace..."

She was silent for a moment. He could feel the tension of her back against his chest. Then, she suddenly jerked, broke off his arms and turned around, "Could there be something wrong with William, George?"

He knew what she was thinking. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes.

"Emma," he said, "the fact that Grace had cried incessantly during most of her first year does not mean that William would be the same." He saw her imploring eyes, "Has he given you any reasons to worry since I was away?"

"No..." she replied almost immediately, yet, she looked unsure.

"But he has not been crying at night... and it worries me when I don't hear his cry... so I went to him... to see how he was..."

"Was he asleep when you went to him?" asked he.

She nodded, silently.

"Would not Mrs Wright come to you if William was unwell?"

She nodded again, with a faint blush.

"What about Mr Perry, Emma? Does he have concerns over William's state of health?" the husband asked.

She shook her head, quite bashfully. "No," she replied, eyes casting down, "Mr Perry says that every sign shows that William is in good health..."

"And you," he did not think twice of her unnecessary worries, only wishing to help her see things more sensibly, he removed one hand from her shoulder and cupped her cheek, "from your own experience as a mother, what do _you_ think of our son's state of health?"

"Humph..." the worried mother contemplated for a moment, and then began slowly, as if speaking a soliloquy, "William has been growing steadily since his birth... he has an insatiable appetite... and is contented to be fed every three hours and as long as his bottom is dry... He could see better now, he recognizes my face and Grace's, I could tell!"

Her pensiveness began to dissipate, she was growing animated and looking up at her husband with sparkles in her eyes, "He loves to wrap his little arm round my side when I suckle him; his little fingers make tiny tingles on my skin! And he gets excited when he hears my voice, he makes these adorable gurgling and cooing sounds when I talk and sing to him!" The mother was smiling brightly by now.

And her smile could melt icebergs in the Arctic sea!

The husband smiled a similarly bright smile at his wife, "It sounds to me that our son is growing perfectly, Emma; there is _nothing_ you should be worried about!"

"You really think so, George?" Wishing to be reassured, in the same way that she had done a thousand times before, she looked up at her husband, the one person in the world whom she trusted with all her soul.

"Yes, Emma, I really think so," he gave her his honest answer. Tucking her fully back in his arms, he nestled her head on his chest, stroking her hair tenderly as she listened to the gentle beating of his heart and the soothing calmness of his voice.

"My dearest, dearest Emma," he said, "we had endured some difficult time with Grace when she was an infant, but by God's grace, those times are behind us. God has given us an easily contended son, had he been crying incessantly as Grace did, we would have loved him just the same. But we have been given two beautiful, healthy children, rather than letting the past marring our happiness, we should be grateful and rejoice in our blessings, do not you think?"

The tension in her person had all been removed, she felt fluid in his arms, and her nod was one that was assured.

"Besides..." the husband spoke and paused. She could detect that hint of mischief in his voice.

She looked up at him and saw the playful twinkles in his eyes.

"I would be contented" he continued, "if _I _get to be with _you_ every three hours, Emma!"

She giggled, lifting a beautiful teasing eyebrow, "Are you telling me, _Mr Knightley,"_ she had said his surname with her marked sauciness that he loved so much, "that _you_ are jealous of your _own_ son?"

The husband returned a sheepish smile, "I am not jealous of my own son, Emma," looking soulfully into her bewitching eyes, "I was once a jealous fool; I know how jealousy feels. I am, however," speaking low into her ear, "extremely envious of our son for being able to spend most of his waking hours with _you_, when I have not even kissed you..." from her ear he had moved his lips only a breath away from hers, "for so… _very…_ long_.._."

Without further delay, he closed the minuscule gap between their lips.

But right when she wrapped her hands eagerly round his neck, returning his passionate kiss with her own fervour, the nursery door creaked. Instantly, her hands fell from his neck, his hold on her waist loosened, and in spite of their unwillingness, the couple's lips came unsealed.

The wife took a deep breath to steady her feet, staggered one step away from her husband and another to the side to face the person, who seemed aware that she had intruded upon something important, whose eyes had turned to look at the wall, was presently standing awkwardly at the threshold of the nursery.

"_Ahem_..." the mistress cleared her throat soundly, but not too soundly to stir her son.

The Donwell Nurse turned and caught the eyes of her mistress gesturing her to come in.

"Good afternoon, Mr Knightley, Mrs Knightley," curtsied the nurse.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Wright," the master returned the greeting cordially.

"Mrs Wright," said the mistress, "We shall be going to Hartfield in half an hour, when William awakes, please bring him to Hartfield, I shall send the carriage back to Donwell for William and you."

"Yes, Mrs Knightley."

"And please remember to bring two additional blankets when you come, one lighter and one thicker. My father would not be easy if he sees William without an extra blanket in the house. The lighter one would do inside, but the thicker one shall be for the journey home tonight."

"Of course, Mrs Knightley."

Once the instructions were given, the Donwell Master and Mistress stood by the crib, sharing quiet adoration for their son for few more moments before leaving him to the care of the nurse.

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o

They had walked out of the nursery into the hallway, and were walking, arm in arm, towards the Mistress Chamber.

"How was the Assize Court?" Emma asked George.

"Long and crowded," George replied soberly. "As usual, there were murderers, poachers, and shoplifters; and _too_ many punishments that were far too harsh for the offense, _too_ many men who stole to keep their families alive were sentenced to the scaffold!"

Emma could hear the anger in George's voice.

As the wife of a kind-hearted magistrate, Emma knew the frustrations George suffered for England's judicial system. She saw the formidable crease between his brows and felt the injustice he had to endure. Though the loving wife was helpless in altering the unjustness of the justice system, she had always been instrumental in lifting her husband's spirit whenever it was low.

She twined her fingers with his, tucked herself even closer to his arm, while smiling her most brilliant smile for him, "Have you seen Grace yet?"

The brows on George softened instantly, for his wife and children had magical power over him, the thought of just one of them could cast away his dreariness and brightened his gloomy days.

He chuckled, "I have you know, Emma, that our daughter was running half naked in her room just now!"

Emma laughed, "Did she make Lucy catch her before she would dress again?"

"Oh yes," he nodded with a wide grin, "and you well know what happened..."

In one voice, the husband and wife, the father and mother, cried out, "_Poor Lucy!_"

They were both laughing, shaking their heads, looking at each other in the most endearing, the most amusing way. Their daughter, who could bring endless troubles to all the servants at Donwell Abbey and at Hartfield, also brought laughter and cheers to everyone around her, had given the two people in this world who loved her and adored her with all their hearts, her father and mother, boundless pride and joy.

Their gaiety had followed them to the chamber, Emma asked George as he opened the door for her, "Do you sometimes wish Grace were a little less spirited, George?"

"_Less_ spirited?" he sounded incredulous. "_Never_, Emma!" he had shut the door behind and followed her to the centre of the room.

Turning her to face him, the husband slipped his hands about his wife's waist again, but this time with just the two of them in the chamber.

"I would not change a _single_ thing in Grace, my love!" his thumb caressing her cheek as he spoke, "I am grateful that our daughter is every bit like her mother, every time when I see her I see her lovely mother in her!"

"You mean," she looked at him mischievously, "you don't mind having _two _Emma's in this house?"

Pressing her intimately close to him, "Two Emma's are _not_ enough..." the enamoured husband confessed sensuously to his wife, "I could never have enough of _you_… my love…"

The sensual way that he spoke was making her dizzy!

"Now, let us speak no more, my darling, and..." he whispered into her ears, "let me kiss you properly at last..." and he sank his lips deep onto hers.

Unfortunately, as if the Divine Omnipotent wished to tease the couple or torment the gentleman for desiring his wife, a child's sweet voice, along with sounds of her blithesome padding, rapidly approaching the chamber had caught Emma's ears.

While the husband was lost in the exquisiteness of his wife, the wife began to wriggle uneasily in her husband's arms.

"_Grace...is... coming_..." she muffled breathlessly in the midst of his fervent kiss.

As soon as those words were uttered, and before George had time to unclasp his eyes and loosened his hold on Emma, the door was pushed open, and a songlike voice came flooding into the room.

"Mama, Mama, I am dressed, I am dressed! May we go see Grandpapa now?" In a blink of an eye, the bubbling two-year-old had bounced and leaped and squeezed herself between her parents' knees.

The husband, at this time had finally let go, unwillingly however, of his wife from his arms. He opened his eyes to look down to see their child grinning up at the both of them.

Emma quickly straightened the bodice of her gown before bending down to smile at their daughter, "Not yet, Grace, Mama has to change."

"You have not changed, Mama!" little Grace sounded disappointed. "But you said that as soon as I bathed and dressed we shall go see Grandpapa!"

"I am sorry, Grace... Mama... was..." the mother hesitated, her eyes wandered to her husband's bright red lips and she was certain that her own must be very much reddened. "I was... er... doing... something..." but she could hardly reveal what that _something _was to her daughter.

"It was Papa's fault, Grace," George interjected hurriedly and bent to scoop Grace in his arms. "Papa had been keeping your mother from changing."

Little Grace's knitted her adorable brows, "For _shame_, Papa!" and squeezed her father's nose between her small fingers.

George chuckled, "Papa had detained Mama for _good _reason, though!" he added playfully.

"What were you and Mama doing, Papa?" the curious child asked.

Emma gaped at George, fearing what he might tell their two-year-old.

"Something _very _important," George said to Grace as he winked at Emma, "but you are _too_ young to know!" and he saw his lovely wife took a breath of relief.

"Now," he gave a sound kiss on Grace's dimpled cheek, "let us take leave of your mother so she could change to go to Grandpapa's with you."

"Are not you coming with us, George?" asked Emma.

"I have been away for too long," said the husband, "I must meet with Larkins first, I shall come to Hartfield with William and join you and Father at supper." Turning to Grace, "Would you like to kiss your mother before we take leave?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" little Grace squealed in excitement and immediately reached her hands for her mother's neck and planted a resounding kiss on her mother's lips.

"And now it is Papa's turn to kiss your mother," announced the father, and the child nodded with approval.

With Grace still in his arms, George leaned into Emma, pressing a deep kiss on her cheek, but before turning back to Grace, he whispered something in Emma's ear that made her blush very, very prettily.

"Do you want to see my frog, Papa?" the child asked as her father bounced her out of the Mistress Chamber.

"You have a _frog_?"

"I caught him today!"

"And you did not eat him?"

The two-year-old giggled, "You silly goose, Papa!"

"You mean I am a bigger silly goose than _you_?"

"You are the _biggest_ silly goose in the _whole_ world, Papa!"

"I _am?"_

More giggles, as a result of her father's tickling fingers, emitted out of the lively child.

"Does your frog have a name?"

"His name is Mr Larkins."

"_What_?" the father burst in chuckles, "You named him Mr Larkins?"

"He frowns like Mr Larkins, Papa!"

"What would Mr Larkins – the _human –_ Mr Larkins say when he hears you name a frog after him?"

"Mr Larkins says I could name my creature friends any name I wish!"

"Are you _sure_..."

_"Hum, hum_..."

As the conversation between the adored child and her doting father fading into the corridor, Emma drew a long happy sigh. George had always had an incredible fondness for children; he was excellent with their nephews and nieces long before they wed. But watching how he loved their own children, how at ease and playful he was with Grace and William just made the heart of this wife and mother full. How blessed she was to be married to such upright, kind, charitable, and the best of gentlemen and fathers!

Even after more than three years of marriage, each day this woman with the best blessings on earth found herself more in love with her husband than the day before. Her heart fluttered as she relished what George whispered in her ears before he left with Grace, and her ravishing, yet, demure smile, and the beautiful blush of a woman in love betrayed what was presently dwelling in her mind – for she, _too_, looked forward to the night to come!

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV**

Dinner at Hartfield where the Hartfield Master and the Knightleys gathered together was nearly a nightly event. Just as it had been for decades, seated at the head of the table was the very old and genteel Mr Woodhouse, and ever since the second union between the Woodhouses and Knightleys was formed, on both the old gentleman's sides at the table were his dearest daughter Emma and favourite son-in-law George Knightley. But since about three weeks ago, an unusual new addition had been added to the dining-table at Hartfield as a usual event.

Like most children, Grace Isabella Knightley used to partake her dinner in the nursery at Hartfield and at Donwell Abbey with her baby brother and their nursery maids, and not until the appropriate hour arrived would she re-join her parents and grandparent for the remainder of the evening. It was about a month ago, when two-year-old Grace asked her mother why she could not dine with her father and mother and grandfather in the grand dining-room that the seed of fancy was planted in Grace's mother's lively mind. Though, at the time, the idea seemed absurd even to the fanciful mother, after some careful consideration, Emma reckoned that given the proper effort, and with the faith she had in her and George's offspring, such idea might not be entirely impossible.

Emma took great lengths to educate Grace the etiquettes at the dining-table as well as the many important rules her bubbling daughter must observe when dining with her grandfather, such as never scratched her chair against the floor to avoid the screeching sound that wrinkled her grandpapa's nerves, or, during dinner, neither shrilling nor squealing in excitement was allowed in case it would disturb her grandfather's peace, or never supplied, in front of her grandparent, the details of her adventures in wrestling with frogs, chasing after squirrels, or romping in the gardens (in damp mud!) without a woollen cape, and most importantly, under no circumstance – absolutely none – the child could speak of her frolicking in the bedchamber with a bare protruding belly, for it surely would horrify her grandfather and possibly unleash his many maladies.

At such a young age, little Grace possessed truly an exceptional mind and determination. She had mastered her manners at the dining-table in very short time, and was able to recite all the important rules her mama taught her with little effort. Hence, it was only natural that one morning at breakfast in the Abbey, Emma the mother, who could not help but feeling immensely proud of her child, presented the idea of their two-year-old dining with her old father to her husband George.

"Are you _sure, _Emma?"

The idea almost caused coffee to run from the husband's nose, George sounded not only concerned, but anxious.

"Grace has been working on her manners exceedingly hard, George! We have been practising pretend-dinner every afternoon in the nursery. Did not you see how well she behaved at breakfast before Lucy took her to the garden?"

"Yes, but we are partial to Grace, Emma! Had she clasped her cheeks between her toasts and pretended to be the apple preserves we would have laughed and thought her adorable."

"But Grace did not play with her toasts, she did not even clang her spoon against her fork once this morning, and she had kept her voice soft the whole time! Did not you notice, George?"

"Yes... but... you know our Grace could decide to slip off her chair one moment only to sit silently conjuring up a new mischief in the next. I do not think it a good idea, Emma!"

"But George... Grace has begged me to let her sit and dine with us and Father every day for an entire week! She promised me that she would behave, and she has worked so hard on her manners and learnt the small nuances that could disturb Father, would not you approve, George... please, George, _please_..."

The husband stood firm for several more moments, but with his wife's coquettish batting eyelashes, her set of very pretty and effective pouty lips, and her many compelling promises that their child could succeed at the most impossible, the firm ground underneath George began to wilt. Furthermore, the tender heart of the father in wishing to grant his child's plea had him eventually succumbing to the notion.

With a sigh the father and husband yielded, "I hope your Father will not be submitted to too much distress!"

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

Once Emma had her approval from George, it did not take long for her to convince her father to let his granddaughter dine with them at the Hartfield dining-room.

Grace's first night at the Hartfield dining-table was, to George's relief, a near smooth sailing. The young child smiled and behaved charmingly with the three adults at dinner, demonstrating every demure and proper nicety that her mother had taught her, her uncommon dexterity had evaded all mishaps with the silverware and the water tumbler, and passed the dinner courses resplendently – but – that was... until the glorious silver platter of delectable confectionaries, sweetmeats, puddings, and fruit tarts were ushered into the dining-room!

You see, dear reader, little Grace Isabella Knightley had won the tender hearts of everyone everywhere she went. Serle, the incomparable cook at Hartfield was unquestionably one of her many admirers. Knowing that little Miss Grace had taken after her mother's love for sweet delights, the cook had often doted on the little mistress with sweet indulgence of various kinds, but due to the watchful eyes of the very strict Nurse, no more than one confectionary could be introduced to the child's meal every three days. Having been informed that the precious child was to dine with the grown-ups that evening for the first time, the cook had found a grand scheme to bestow favours upon the beloved child mistress.

As soon as the shiny tray was ushered in, it immediately caught little Grace's attention. Her round hazel eyes widened in sheer ecstasy, the young sprout clothed in seasoned pleasantry instantly shed her heavy cloak; all manners she had learnt from her mother were tossed under the table, along with the slippers flung from her small dangling feet. The many nuances that her mother told her to avoid began to spurt out of the child. At the sight of the bountiful delights, the two-year-old squealed and cooed and clapped her hands in exuberance.

Emma, the proud mother, who was sipping wine from her wine glass when the dainty tranquillity was shattered, jerked, almost choked on the wine, immediately directed her glance, not to the child who broke the peace, but to her old father, who, presently looking down at his small egg boiled very soft, was cringing, rubbing his ears with his bony hands.

Emma quickly laid down her wine glass, and as she was turning towards Grace, her attention was diverted by the sight of George's darkening face.

_He must be upset with Grace!_ – was her first thought. But – _No!_ – Emma quickly reckoned as she discerned the colour of her husband's face. _He was turning red! – _she was sure – _George was mortified and anxious for her Father, even more so than herself! _

Emma blinked and tore her gaze from George, quickly turning towards their child, and was about to put a stop to her daughter's unruly excitement. But it was too late. The shrilling child had already erected from her seat, with unshod stockinged feet on her chair, lifting one dimpled knee above the table, leaning her torso and reaching her hand over her mother's dinner plate onto where the footman spread the scrumptious treats. The silver platter was dangerously close to her mother's cutlery, and the child's little fingers were dangerously close to her mother's wine glass half-full of wine.

Right when the wobbling knee of the determined two-year-old lost its footing, her little fingers slipped and swiped the glass. Emma the mother, deftly manoeuvring her graceful limbs, clasped one hand round her daughter's small waist, scooping the wine glass before it fell with the other and laying it down softly on the table where it was safe. She then gently and securely settled her daughter back on the large pillow atop her chair, bent and spoke kindly and calmly to her.

"Grace, you must wait for the deserts to be served to you."

"_But... Mama_..." the two-year-old pleaded desperately, her eyes would not stray from the shiny platter, and her small hands still outstretched in mid-air in the direction of the dreamy treats.

Emma hushed a gentle finger on Grace's lips, looked her daughter in the eyes, shaking her head slightly while directing the child's gaze to her grandfather. Albeit his ears were momentarily rung by the two-year-old's excitement, Mr Woodhouse's attention had been so devotedly drawn to the small egg boiled very soft that the chaotic scene that had just taken place seemed to have completely escaped him.

As if a fairy had suddenly carried her uncommon senses back to her, little Grace, at her mother's beckoning, took one look at her grandfather and quickly realized what she had done, or, rather, escaped!

The child stuck her adorable little red tongue out sheepishly, covered her translucent pink plump cheeks with her small hands, and was looking at her mother, then her father. The three big and small Knightleys exchanged gazes, George, the father's face continued to be red, not because he was mortified and anxious and holding his breath, but was now trying, with excessive difficulties, not to laugh. Emma was doing no better than George, her old father's oblivion to his grandchild's escapade was tickling the mischievous mother's restrains, shifting very uneasily in her seat, the elegant mother lifted her dinner napkin over her mouth, hard at work in covering her quivering lips.

It was little Grace, the instigator of the excitement, proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The guilty, yet innocent, ear-to-ear milk-toothy grin on her childish face was too hilarious for her parents to keep their unaffected pretence, and when the child's grin turned into giggles, both George and Emma gave up and began to chuckle.

And that was when Mr Woodhouse finished his small egg boiled very soft. The old gentleman, with self-contentment, looked up and discovered that the three young people round the dining-table were giggling and chuckling. The old man smiled, in bewilderment, and asked, "You all seem... amused..." his feeble sight slowly moving from one young person to another, "Have I missed something?"

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

Since that first night, two-year-old Grace had secured herself a permanent seat at the dining-table, the child was proven to be a delight to the grown-ups (though there was never any doubt in her mother's mind and only a little in her father's) rather than a disturbance to her grandfather's nerves. Her manners continued to mature, and the important rules that her mother taught her were now observed with less strictness. A few mishaps that caused small cringes on her grandfather now and then were seen as natural for any two-year-old, and her mama and papa would over look them with a gentle reminder.

Tonight, after a fortnight of absence from home, George's return added particular gaiety to the family occasion. And after dinner, while Emma had retreated to the nursery to tend William, George, the dutiful son-in-law, with Grace perching on his knee, sat with Mr Woodhouse regaling to him several more worthy trials at the Assize Court and other interesting happenings that he gathered while away.

It was time for Mr Woodhouse to partake his basin of thin gruel before retiring for the night, and George reckoned that the old gentleman should be left to his gruel before it became cold and that he and Grace would go to be with Emma and William in the nursery. Holding his daughter's small hand in his large one, George bowed to bid Mr Woodhouse's pardon and excused himself and his child from the old man's presence.

The father and daughter had already walked out of the drawing room when the father felt the little hand in his tugging at him.

"Yes, Grace..." George halted, bent and spoke to his daughter.

"May I stay with Grandpapa?" the two-year-old asked.

Grace's request surprised George, for it was the first time he had ever heard such request from his two-year-old.

He turned, surveyed the drawing room, and found that Mr Woodhouse was alone inside.

"Humph..." he considered.

It was difficult for George not to hesitate. Neither Emma nor he had ever left their children alone with Mr Woodhouse, in fact, none of John and Isabella's five children, as he recalled, had ever been left unattended with his father-in-law. In spite of Mr Woodhouse's fondness for his grandchildren, the nerves of the old gentleman were too delicate to endure the vitality of the very young – particularly – his and Emma's ebullient Grace!

George knelt down on one knee so that he could look Grace in the eye when he spoke to her. "I think we should go see your mother and brother, Grace."

"But I want to stay with Grandpapa!" pleaded the two-year-old, the imploring light in the child's hazel eyes staring straight into her father's.

"You _do_..." George was intrigued. As much time as Grace spent with Emma and William, she had never turned down a single chance to be with her mother and infant brother.

"Why do you wish to stay with Grandpapa, Grace?" he asked.

"I want to keep Grandpapa's company like the way you and Mama do!" supplied the child with much enthusiasm.

George's heart swelled – how could the father not be proud of his child for wishing to be like him and Emma!

But, still, he was unsure – it was one thing to allow their two-year-old a place at the dining-table superintended by Emma and himself, but an entirely different matter to let her stay with her grandfather alone! Grace was too young for an old gentleman as Mr Woodhouse, George reckoned, and unwillingly launched himself into an inner debate...

_Though it was true that Grace was very young, she had made her request in such sincere manner... perhaps… both he and Grace should stay with Mr Woodhouse... But – he had wished to be with his wife and son; he had been away from his family for a fortnight and barely had more than a few moments with them alone... he should take Grace with him and go to Emma and William... Wait – his little Grace had such noble intention, would not he, as her father, wish to cultivate the little seed of kindness in his child at this young age ... he would do better to let Grace stay... Yet – Emma's father was no ordinary grandfather; it seemed irresponsible to leave their daughter alone with the old gentleman, who had not the smallest inkling in managing youngsters..._

The usually commanding, very decisive Donwell Master was in a new bind! Albeit he was not a new father, this was but untrod territory to him. While George could not acquit himself with one decision or the other, the Hartfield footman who had left Mr Woodhouse to fetch his newspapers had returned, and George felt, at last, he had find his solution.

His pondering face was now lifted by a relieved smile when he spoke again to Grace.

"It is very good of you to wish to keep your Grandpapa's company, Grace!" said the father. "Papa shall leave you with your Grandfather for the time being, but would you promise me that you would not disturb your Grandpapa while he takes his gruel and read his papers?"

The child nodded reassuringly.

"And if you need anything," George glanced at the footman who was standing steely several feet behind his old master, "_anything _at all, you let the footman know to come fetch Papa, you promise?"

Grace nodded again, with a grand smile.

"Now, go sit on the sofa next to your Grandfather like the way Papa did. Papa shall return with your mother and baby brother very soon."

George kissed Grace on the cheek and let her go back to the drawing room.

Meaning to turn for the nursery but not turning, the father simply could not lift his feet. George lingered at the threshold of the drawing room, watching his daughter padding back inside. Several times Grace had turned to wave and smile at him, and this doting papa eagerly returned with his own enthusiastic wave and endearing smile to his precious little one. He saw that she had climbed onto the sofa and situated herself properly on the right place. George stood there for a while longer, observing Grace from afar. Even in his and Emma's absence, he thought their rumbustious two-year-old was behaving exceedingly well. He glanced at the footman standing behind his father-in-law one last time, feeling it was time to take his leave, the proud father finally turned and walked into the dim corridor, and to the nursery to seek his wife and son.

* * *

_A/N: Happy Father's Day! I hope you like Mr Knightley as a father, he's not perfect and still has a lot to learn, just like many fathers, new and not so new, but I think he's a wonderful father. Thank you for reading! :-)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V**

Little Grace turned to wave at her papa once more before climbing onto the sofa, seating herself in the very place where her papa sat moments ago. With the palms of her small hands, the two-year-old smoothed her gown, as her mother had taught her, very gracefully, making certain that her dress was covering her little ankles on the sofa (also as the way her mother taught her), and sat very quietly watching her grandfather with extraordinary interest.

Even though his granddaughter had been sitting near him for quite some time, in his customary manner, the very old Mr Woodhouse had hardly noticed much of what was happening near him. His constitution, contrary to what he believed all his life, had been kind to him. His many imaginary ailments and some true sicknesses had left the Hartfield Master a little feebler than other elderly persons of his age. The true cause of his frailty stemmed from the inactivity of his mind and his reclusiveness from physical exertion. But the old man was contented with what he had, or had not for that matter, all his life, and at this age, his basin of thin gruel and the advertiser pages were all that he required to pass the evenings.

At length, when the old gentleman laid down his papers and spectacles to look for the spoon for his gruel, he noticed the quiet little doll sitting very properly on the sofa.

The curious eyes of the two-year-old never strayed from her grandpapa, and when they caught his eyes, the bright smile on the cherubic child beamed directly at the old man.

The sight of the little child sitting in a vast sofa surprised Mr Woodhouse, certain oddness came over him, but he could not place his finger on what it was. It was not until after a long hard contemplation that he realized what was missing.

The old gentleman looked round and behind where he sat, searching for his granddaughter's parents and her nursery maid, yet, he had found none. The oddness hung in the air, but the old man could not help it. As the smile of the child shone so sparklingly at him, Mr Woodhouse smiled a very kind grandfatherly smile at the child, looked down to pick up his spoon, and sipped his gruel.

Other than the sound of him slurping his gruel, the space between the grandfather and granddaughter was presently filled with silence. Silence had never troubled Mr Woodhouse, in fact, to a man with delicate nerves silence was a comfort that he relished. But the same cannot be said for the two-year-old.

Little Grace had kept her promise to her papa and left her grandfather to his gruel and papers. Nevertheless, as she had seen on numerous occasions how her papa and mama waited for her grandfather to look up and smile before they would speak to him, now that her grandfather had looked up _and_ smiled at her, even though he had looked back down, she was sure it was her turn to speak.

The distance between the sofa where she sat and her grandfather's armchair seemed far smaller when her papa was there; little Grace eyed the large gap between her and her grandpapa and decided to scoot to the end of the furniture where she could be closer to her grandfather when she spoke. And as soon as she had made certain that her dress was covering her ankles, she began her turn of speaking to him.

"Do you like gruel, Grandpapa?"

The silence broken by the bright voice felt a bit out of order to Mr Woodhouse, for more than two years, he had grown accustom to taking his gruel alone before retiring at night. Yet, how could the old gentleman fault a two-year-old for wrinkling his peace…

"Yes, I do, my dear," he replied with a very kind smile. Now that he felt more settled, Mr Woodhouse was happy to return to his gruel.

But as his spoon was hardly lifted out of the thin mixture, he heard the child again.

"You must like it _very_ much, Grandpapa!"

Mr Woodhouse paused, looked up, nodding, with a smile that was a little more reserved than the one before, and said, "I do, my dear, I do."

The old gentleman sent his spoon to his mouth, yet, before he could swallow another enquiry came.

"You must like it _very, very, very_ much, Grandpapa!' remarked the two-year-old enthusiastically. "You have gruel _every_ meal and before bedtime _every _night!"

Albeit he was very much attached to his habitual silence, the grandfather was pleased by how observant his young granddaughter was.

"I do, my dear child, I really do, I have liked gruel all my life, since I was a boy!" Mr Woodhouse replied with a grand smile, and was about to purposely scoop a heaping spoonful from the basin to demonstrate to the child just how much he truly loved gruel.

"You mean," Grace returned immediately with even greater animation, "like the way William likes suckling Mama's milk? William _LOVES_ Mama's milk, he drinks it _every_ meal and before bedtime _every_ night _just_ like _you_, Grandpapa!"

The ear-to-ear grin on Mr Woodhouse instantly went crooked in the opposite direction. The image of his grandson suckling his daughter and _him_ eating gruel side by side... felt... disgusting to the old man! With a frown, he stared at his basin of gruel, which had never been unenticing to him until this moment. Laying down his spoon, the grandfather smiled ruefully at his granddaughter with a reluctant nod and decided to return to his papers instead.

For a moment or two, a familiar silence, with the exception of the sound from him thumbing the newspaper pages, once again filled the room and comforted Mr Woodhouse.

But such peace did not last long before the child asked with irrepressible curiosity. "What are you reading, Grandpapa?"

Mr Woodhouse took a deep breath, peered at his grandchild from the edge of the papers with eyeglasses hanging on the tip of his nose. He looked round him once again, "_Er_… where is your mother… or father, my dear?" asked he.

"Mama is suckling William, and Papa went to be with Mama and William, Grandpapa!"

Compressing his cracked thin lips, the grandfather squeezed his brows.

"What about Nurse… and… your maid, my dear?"

"Nurse always stays with William when we are at Hartfield, Grandpapa, and Mama had sent Lucy home before we came because she heard from Mrs Hodges that Lucy's mama has fallen ill!"

"_Poor_ Lucy's mother!" the kind hearted Hartfield Master sighed, slowly shaking his head, "Must be the dreadful cold that Mr Perry warned me about!"

Mr Woodhouse went on lamenting how his good friends Mrs Bates and Miss Bates had also been inflicted by the dreadful disease and wished all those who were stricken in Highbury would come out of the plight unscathed. And once he had finished, the old grandfather, forgetting that the little two-year-old had been waiting for him patiently while he sulked, opened his papers cocooning himself behind it again… until…

"What are you reading, Grandpapa?" Unlike her grandfather, little Grace had a stellar memory.

"Oh!" Now that the fuzzy old man was reminded of the child's previous enquiry, "_Er_…" feeling there was no one to pass the child to, "just… just… some advertisements, my dear…" he yielded very reluctantly.

"What are a-fur-ties-men, Grandpapa?"

Somehow, even this fuzzy old man could see the question coming!

Mr Woodhouse drew a helpless sigh, laid down his papers, and said, "Advertisements are..." he had to think for a moment, "…they are...announcements of goods for sale."

"Goods... for... _sale_?" Grace asked perplexedly, knitting her adorable brows.

"It means when someone has something to sell, they would place an advertisement in the newspapers to let people know what they have to sell."

"Would you read them to me, Grandpapa?" asked Grace very politely. And without invitation, the two-year-old slid down from the sofa onto her feet, took three steps in front of her grandfather, and reached her arms upward, positioning herself to be lifted onto her grandpapa's knee. All of these were customary for the two-year-old, for whenever her papa and mama read to her she was always lifted onto their knees.

But the two-year-old waited for a long time, her grandfather did not move an inch. Her bewildered eyes stared at her grandpapa, and in return, her grandpapa was staring at her with bewilderment of the same degree. The gaping between the grandfather and granddaughter went on for a while longer, eventually little Grace decided to take matter into her own hands, she lowered her arms, pressed her hands on her grandfather's kneecaps, and began climbing onto her grandpapa with alacrity.

The old grandfather was taken aback by the child's action for a moment before realising what his granddaughter was trying to do. He shifted very awkwardly in his armchair, for it had been too long since any child was on his knee. The last time must have been when Emma was at Grace's age. He could hardly remember what it had felt like, but the little that he could recollect was that his wife had placed little Emma on him only briefly before he handed their daughter back to her because his knees were hurting. Even then, it was very rare that their child was placed in his care, and he was at his younger state... but now... being so much older... and weak... the old gentleman did not know what to do!

Hesitatingly, Mr Woodhouse extended his feeble hands for Grace's small hands, which was presently struggling to get a grip on his unsteady knee. He tried to pull the child up over his knee, but his movements were as clumsy as his mind, and his thin arms could not bear even the weight of a young child. And when the first attempt in pulling Grace onto him failed, the old man was quick to give up and let his hands dropped from the child's arms unto his lap.

The determined two-year-old was not one to give up so easily, but as her grandfather was perched quite out of her reach and his hands no longer giving her the tug that she needed, little Grace decided that perhaps she needed not be on her grandfather's knee after all.

"Would you read to me, Grandpapa?" she asked, contented to be leaning on the arm of her grandfather's chair instead.

"Of... of course, my dear!"

What an immense relief that the child had given up on the notion of sitting on him! Mr Woodhouse was too glad to grant his granddaughter's wish and quickly unfolded his papers and began reading from whatever he saw that instant.

"_'PRISONERS TRIED AND SENTENCED: At the half-yearly Assize Court on Monday, the following prisoners were tried…'_"

"What are prisoners, Grandpapa?" Grace interrupted her grandfather.

"Prisoners are… those… who do bad things…"

"What bad things, Grandpapa?"

"_Er_… things that are... very, very bad…"

"What are things that are very, very bad, Grandpapa?"

"Steal-stealing… Stealing is very bad..."

"What is stealing, Grandpapa?"

"Stealing… is… when one takes what does not belong to one..."

"Why would anyone wish to steal, Grandpapa?"

"Because… because they wish for something that does not belong to them…"

"Why would they wish for something that does not belong to them, Grandpapa?"

"Because… because…"

"Would not their mama and papa give it to them, Grandpapa?"

"_Er_…"

"Is it because their mama and papa cannot afford it, Grandpapa?"

"I… suppose…"

"Mama says that there are mamas and papas in the parish who cannot afford to give enough food to their children and themselves, and that is why Mama visits them and brings them food every week, Grandpapa!"

"Your mother has always had the kindest of hearts, my dear child!" At last, a genuine warm smile, rather than an awkward twitch, came from Mr Woodhouse.

"And Mama says when I am old enough she would bring me with her when she visits the poor, Grandpapa!"

"That would be very kind of you and your mother, my dear. But do remember to put on one or two more cloaks when you go, the houses the poor live in are dreadfully draughty I heard!"

Little Grace nodded. "Is it why they steal?" she asked.

"Huh!" Mr Woodhouse was surprised by the enquiry. "Er… you mean they steal because their houses are draughty?"

Grace shook her head, pointing at the papers, "Is that why the prisoners steal? Because they need food?" she asked.

"Oh, no! These prisoners did not steal food; they had stolen shoes, tobacco, and silver watch."

"Why would one steal shoes, Grandpapa? And what is toe-back-coal?"

The many enquiries from the child had already had the head of the old man spinning. Mr Woodhouse feared that at any moment another deluge of questions would be flooding from the little mouth!

"Perhaps…" he forced a smile, "we should… _er_… read something else, my dear…" and he was very glad to see no objection from the child.

The grandfather turned several pages and found what he was looking for…

"Ah…" he grinned, "there it is, my favourite advertisement: _The Essence of Mustard Pills for Flying Pains_!"

But just when Mr Woodhouse was about to begin reading, little Grace's attention was caught by a word, which resembled the one her mother had taught her the day before, printed on the adjacent page.

"Is this about goat, Grandpapa?" she asked, pointing at the printed word.

Mr Woodhouse pushed his spectacles up closer to his eyes and followed the small finger. "Oh, no!" he shook his head, "This is not about goat, my dear."

"What is it about, Grandpapa?"

"It says, '_CAUTION TO SERVANTS – A maid servant, who lately engaged to live a year in a family at Highbury, and after a few weeks quitted her service without cause, was fined by the magistrate…'_"

"The _Magistrate_!" Grace squealed in excitement, "That is my _Papa_!"

The old gentleman smiled and nodded indulgently. "You are right, my dear, you father _is_ the magistrate!"

"What is it about _Papa_, Grandpapa?" the hazel eyes of the child gleamed.

Mr Woodhouse cleared his throat and read aloud, "'_A maid servant, who lately engaged to live a year in a family at Highbury, and after a few weeks quitted her service without cause, was fined by the magistrate one guinea, which she was obliged to pay, or go to the gaol…'_"

"What is a gaol, Grandpapa?" The child's insatiable curiosity was piqued.

The grandfather hesitated, fearing that the floodgate might be opening soon.

"What is a gaol, Grandpapa?" Grace bade again. "Is it like a goat?"

"No, oh, _certainly_ no!" supplied Mr Woodhouse. The many questions from the child might easily fatigue the old man, but the good-natured grandfather was convinced that he must set his granddaughter's infantile mind straight on this matter.

"Remember the prisoners we spoke of, my dear?" he asked.

Grace nodded.

"A gaol is the place where prisoners live. For some prisoners, they are kept there awaiting their trials, but for others, they are confined there to pay for their misdeeds."

"Is gaol a nice place, Grandpapa?"

"Oh, _no!_ It is the _most_ dreadful place on earth!"

Little Grace gasped, "It_ is_?" eyes widened.

"Surely, my dear, I have never been to a gaol in my life, but I would never wish to see or go near such dreadful place. I have heard that it is the darkest, dampest, filthiest place on earth, suffice to say that it must be very draughty, my child, unbefitting for any person to live! I have heard it from Miss Bates, who had heard it from Mr Cutts, who had heard it from one of his shady customers, that prisoners are chained to the floor by padlocks behind solid iron bars, and the rooms have walls of forbidden thickness with hardly a window to let air in, and being under the watchful eyes of ogre-like guards, once a prisoner goes inside, he or she would never see daylights again!"

The vivid image of the goal had frightened the child. The bright voice of the two-year-old turned mousy, "Will… will the prisoners see their mamas and papas again?" she asked her grandfather with visible fear in her eyes.

"Oh no! I do not think they could see their families again, my dear!"

"_R-r-really?" _Little Grace trembled.

And at this time Mr Woodhouse himself was sufficiently disturbed by the dreadful thought of such unwholesome place.

With disgust, "Let us speak no more of prisoners or gaol, my dear!" he suggested, "I think we should read my favourite advertisement instead."

Grace nodded, still shaken, and it was not until several moments later that her fear slowly began to dissipate.

Mr Woodhouse turned his eyes back to the newspaper, searching for the advertisement he was going to read before he was interrupted.

He smiled, found what he was looking for and began.

"'_Essence of Mustard Pills for Flying Pains: Rheumatisms, Palsies, and Gouty Affections with their usual concomitants, Spasm, or flying pains, Flatulency, Indigestion, and general Debility, originating in whatever source, are relieved and frequently cured by Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills, after every other means had failed. The Fluid Essence of Mustard (used with the Pills, in those complaints where necessary) is perhaps the most active, penetrating, and effectual remedy in the world, generally curing the severest SPRAINS AND BRUISES in less than half the time usually taken by any other liniment or Embrocation…'"_

While her grandfather was happily reading from his dear advertisement, the attention of the two-year-old was not nearly devoted to the magnificent properties of the magical Essence as her grandpapa did. And before Mr Woodhouse was halfway through the advertisement, curious thoughts began careening in little Grace's mind – such as, why her grandfather had a thick coat on his back and two woollen blankets on his lap when it was positively toasting outside, or why the hearth in Hartfield next to where her grandpapa sat always had a fire even when it made it difficult for her to breathe, or why when there were so many scrumptious treats on the dining-table at dinner, but her grandfather would only wish to eat a small egg that looked grotesque, and why was there hair poking out of her grandpapa's nostrils and ears, Mrs Bates who looked just as old as her grandpapa was the same way, it seemed that old people's hair grew on their faces not on their heads, surely, it must be very ticklish to them!

In that short duration, at least a dozen thoughts had whirled through Grace Isabella Knightley's head, but there was one – only one – matter, which she had learnt that very morning, kept lingering in her mind…

"Nurse said that Mama, Papa, and I used to live in Hartfield," Grace spoke up abruptly.

It was unusual that the attention of the old gentleman was caught in the first attempt, but the sudden remark from the child did precisely that – instantly, Mr Woodhouse paused his reading and went into silence.

"Is it true, Grandpapa?"

The grandfather looked hesitant.

"Is it true, Grandpapa?"

"It… it is true…" in a subdued voice, he replied.

"Nurse said that Mama gave birth to me in Hartfield, unlike William, who was born in Donwell Abbey. Is what Nurse said true, Grandpapa?"

"It… it… it is, my child," Mr Woodhouse nodded soberly, "you… you were born… in this house..." eyes staring blankly at a distance.

"Nurse also said that Mama, Papa, and I removed to the Abbey when I was a small baby just like William now… "

The grandfather's face went ash. He had never spoken to anyone of what happened two years ago, his heart could not bear the thoughts, and his mind had endeavoured not to think of it.

"Is it true, Grandpapa?" little Grace asked.

The grandfather was discomposed, being put to the path of the painful past had rendered the feeble man speechless, and he began to gasp for breaths.

"Is it true, Grandpapa?" his granddaughter implored again, every beckoning was like dagger shooting at her grandfather's chest.

"Grandpapa… Would not you tell me?"

Mr Woodhouse remained silent… but his granddaughter continued to press… until, at last, he was no longer able to turn a deaf ear on the child, and his unwilling heart forced him to relive what he had been unable to forget…

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_A/N: I always have fun writing Mr Woodhouse... and now little Grace and her grandpapa. :-) Hope you are at least a little intrigued... __As always, t__hank you for reading! :-)_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: My belated congratulations to Kate and William on the birth of little Prince George (I'm very partial to the name George ;D)! I never follow news of royalties or celebrities, but this lovely couple definitely caught my attention every time when I saw their photos on the news or internet - they looked so much in love with each other and so in tune with one another! Now with a family of their own, I am so happy for them and I wish them all the best blessings!_

_Coincidentally, this chapter is also about the birth of my favourite couple's first child :D Here's the continuation from the last chapter where little Grace was being a bit too inquisitive to Mr Woodhouse. But the grandpapa endured it tolerably until the innocent child brought up something that he tried to forget..._

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**Part VI**

It was several months after the union of Miss Emma Woodhouse and Mr George Knightley that the news of the couple expecting their first child began to circulate. And for the next few months, Highbury and Donwell were bustling with joyous anticipations. Months turned into weeks, weeks into days, speculations by the villagers of when the child of the beloved couple would debut the world were spiralling in the sky. And when words of the Hartfield carriage had come to fetch the midwife in high speed spread, almost all villagers, in the quietness of their hearts, paused to send good wishes to the Knightleys and Woodhouses that these two most loved and respected local families would escape the sad fate of the nation's beloved Princess Charlotte*.

The long hours during Emma was in childbirth George was pacing incessantly outside the chamber, where the midwife along with Mrs Weston and a regiment of maids attended his wife. Likewise, Mr Woodhouse was on the edge of his armchair awaiting tremblingly the news that both his daughter and grandchild were safe.

The violent screaming of his wife exploding through the door pounded into George's ears and heart and nearly broke the gentleman's restrain in storming into the room to take Emma into his arms to sooth and to love her and to take away her pain. Several times when he heard Emma screaming for him in pain, George had indeed succumbed to his impulse and rushed into the room, but Mrs Weston had two of their more experienced maids guarding the door under strict order and prevented him from seeing his wife suffer. The agonized husband, who was unwillingly escorted out of the chamber, returned to pacing agitatedly the long corridor with hands rumpling his hair and tossing his cravat and frock coat aside. Had it been all possible, George would have taken Emma's place to bear the danger and pain of childbirth in a breath.

As for Mr Woodhouse, being corridors, chambers, and a floor apart, he could only faintly hear the cries of his beloved daughter, but even in such faintness, the old man's heart would have stopped forever at the hint of the slightest bad news. The distressed gentleman did not drink or eat or breathe easily for the duration of his daughter's labour, which was a nearly ten hour ordeal, but to the old father, as well as his son-in-law, it was eternity in a hellish fire.

The end of the excruciating pain at last drew near when the baby's head crept out of the mother, and then rapidly the rest of her tiny body descending onto the midwife's hands. At the first sound of the baby's ferocious cry, George could no longer restrain himself; the anxious husband pushed the formidable door open, shoved any maid who dared to stand in the way of him seeking the pulse of his life, bolted towards the bed and dropped to his knees at the side of his wife.

In spite of her exhausted state, Emma, the toiled mother, soaked in sweat and happy tears, smiled tenderly at her husband as he reached her side. Assured, at long last, that his wife was safe from the strenuous and dangerous toil, George, heedless to the many pairs of eyes surrounding them, scooped Emma in his arms and held her so close to him that as if heaven and earth could move nothing could ever separate her from him.

While the couple drenched in the relief and happiness of Providence's safe deliverance, the new born infant was washed, dressed, and swaddled in a brand new blanket and presented to her parents. The new mother and father were overjoyed, so was the worried grandfather upon receiving the news carried by the upper maid, and the entire village of Highbury celebrated in exuberance as soon as words of the families' good tidings spread like wildfire.

Whereas most people had expected the safe delivery of the highly anticipated infant would mark another new beginning of the Knightleys' perfect happiness, yet, true happiness seldom existed without its alloys, and to Emma and George, the happiness of receiving their first child was soon turning into something that no one could have foreseen.

As it unfolded in the days after, the infant who came into the world with a ferocious cry continued to cry in the same manner as if her life was dependent upon it. Baby Grace, who was named after her grandmother on her father's side, would not stop crying from the moment she was born. Nothing seemed to calm and sooth her. The infant would cry excruciatingly hard for excruciatingly long in spite of the hour of day or night, the only times her screaming would break were when she had exhausted her tiny self and resorted to suckling her mother to quench her thirst or seek comfort for her little soul. Half an hour of sleep was the lengthiest pause between baby Grace's unyielding cries, and pauses were few and far between for the infant.

Needless to say, the disconsolate infant had imposed a large toll on everyone near her, but the ones who bore the enormity of it were without a doubt her loving mother and devoted father.

Youthful Emma had long been loveliness itself, the months of carrying a child did not reduce her beauty, it had only increased her grace to an even lovelier extent, and the laborious childbirth that could be overly taxing, had the woman survived, to any lady did little to tarnish the picture of health in Emma, it had only exhausted her strength for the duration of the ordeal.

But things went very differently after her daughter was born. When the new mother saw her precious baby cried so violently and unceasingly, her tender heart was shattered into thousand pieces. In spite of an assemblage of maids at her disposal in her father's house, Emma loved her child so much that she was unwilling to leave her in the hands of anyone but her own. She would cradle baby Grace in her loving arms night and day, endeavouring desperately to give her crying daughter comfort, even when most of the times it was deemed an impossible task. While the cries of the infant had come with heart breaking intensity, the tears of the mother were intense mixtures of love and heart breaks. Though being with child had added to the perfect bloom of the mother-to-be, the endless worries, the sleepless days, the unbearable exhaustion, the feeling of helplessness in caring for her own child were withering the new mother in alarming pace.

As for George, the difficulty in his situation was not lessened because caring for the young was the duty that lied in the women's hands. The new father's heart wrung as wretchedly as his wife's by the piercing cries of their infant daughter, but the torment on George was doubled as he witnessed, powerlessly, the sadness and despair in his beloved Emma.

By day, Mr Knightley was the involved landowner, the kind hearted and just magistrate, and by night, George was the loving husband and devoted father, staying steadfastly by the side of his wife and infant daughter, enfolding the two most precious persons of his life within his arms and let them both cry on his chest. Whatever within the power of the husband and father, whether it was his comforting voice, his tireless patience, the tender embrace of his strong arms, his excellence of mind that sustained Emma's glimmering hope, or simply his very presence that soothed her weary soul, he would give freely and unreservedly in spite of his own exhaustion.

And one must know that the suffering had gone beyond the mother and father of the crying babe. The one person in Hartfield who had a long history of being easily distressed could not, undoubtedly, escape the evil of the situation. The incessant crying of the infant had subjected Mr Woodhouse to great distress. The fragile nerves of the old gentleman were under fury attack from one day's end to the other. Despite the fact that Emma and George had hidden their screaming daughter in the nursery which was far removed from the old man's quarter, the ferocious cry of the baby horrified the old man.

The habitual peace that sustained Mr Woodhouse's delicate world was shattered mercilessly by the unyielding infant. To the old man with decrepit hearing, the faint cries of the baby had imposed a much larger disturbance on his spirit than his ears. The presence of an inconsolable infant in his house had become so insufferable to Mr Woodhouse that he was unable to sleep, nor sit, nor eat, nor think soon after the baby's birth.

Every day, Mr Perry was called to Hartfield to tend the ailing Hartfield Master. Having to care for her new born daughter at all hours, and with her own declining spirit, devoted daughter Emma was no longer able to nurse her father. Through Mr Perry's many connections, a nurse was brought into Hartfield to care for the invalid. Unfortunately, Mr Woodhouse's nervous and restless condition not only did not improve, the distressed old man began to complain of hearing infant's screaming even when his grandbaby was at that very moment sleeping soundlessly in her mother's arms.

As the old gentleman's nervousness continued to worsen, Mr Perry took it upon himself to discuss with Mr Knightley the possibility of removing the Knightleys from Hartfield to Donwell Abbey, in the hope of restoring Hartfield to its previous peace, hence, unknotting Mr Woodhouse's tangled nerves.

Upon hearing Mr Perry's suggestion from George, Emma, the faithful daughter, albeit she had barely been fulfilling her daughterly duties since her own child was born, holding onto the notion that her father's life would be at risk if she were ever be removed from him, could not bear even the thought of quitting her father and ardently refused the idea.

Nevertheless, Mr Perry did not give up. The apothecary took his suggestion to his trusting client, and without much effort was able to convince the infirm Mr Woodhouse. The idea of restoring Hartfield to its former serenity was in itself a solicitation to the desperate old man. His yearning for a peaceful soul had overpowered his longstanding fear of losing his beloved daughter to a mile's distance. Whether it was out of self-preservation or plain selfishness, the confused old man could not discern, all he wished was returning to his habitual life, a sleep that would let him rest rather than giving him haunting dreams, a head that had no noises grinding at it, and a heart that did not pound at his feeble chest until it hurt.

However, when George spoke to Emma regarding Mr Perry successfully convincing her father to let them remove, Emma's objection grew even fiercer. It was impossible for her to believe that her father, who was against changes of all natures, and who could not accept the idea of her marrying not long ago, would willingly accept such drastic alteration. But when her father called her to his presence, and out of his hardened heart revealed to her that it was his wish that she, her husband, and their infant child be removed from Hartfield, the heart of the mother and daughter was breaking all over – and this time it was broken by her father!

All her life, Emma had stayed faithful to her father, had not it been George's willingness to remove to Hartfield for her father's sake, Emma would have remained unmarried instead of quitting her father to marry George. But while she would not have left her father no matter the circumstance, her father, now, was practically leaving her. The feeling of being abandoned by her own father was piercing the good daughter's heart.

Once the decision was settled, on the afternoon of the third day, the Knightleys, George, Emma, and three-month-old Grace, were removing to Donwell Abbey. There was no fanfare to send off the family from Hartfield, very little words – only tears, mostly on the daughter's part – were exchanged between Mr Woodhouse and Emma before they parted. Neither was there celebration at the Abbey upon receiving their beloved master and mistress and baby mistress into their rightful home. With less than two days to prepare for the arrival of the adored family, the servants at the ancient house had barely the time to remove the dust cloths and dress their Mistress and Master's chambers to a decent state, suffice to say that they could not restore, even had they tried, their master's childhood nursery to its former glory in time for their baby mistress. All they could do for a temporary nursery was to place the infant crib next to the mistress's bed in the mistress's room.

Returning to the Abbey was a bittersweet time for George – perhaps it was far bitter than sweet to tell the truth. When the Donwell Master removed to Hartfield the day he married his bride, he was prepared to give up the comfort of his own in return for the comfort of his father-in-law for as long as it was required. He had thought that it could be years before he and his wife would eventually live in his house. Now that he was come back to his own house with his own family, there was a sense of ease that he had not felt for quite some time. Nevertheless, he would rather forgo that at-ease feeling than having his beloved Emma suffer the way she did. His wife had already endured far too much because of their disconsolate daughter; being asked to leave her childhood home by her own father had left his dearest Emma utterly crushed.

On their first night at the Abbey, their new home, George, Emma, and baby Grace spent a very quiet (except, of course, for the sound from Grace's ferocious cry) evening together. The entire Knightley family of three stayed behind the Mistress Chamber door that night without servants, by the order of the master, to disturb them. Baby Grace, in her customary manner, cried and wailed until she was exhausted and fell asleep in her mother's bosom; and Emma the mother, curled up on the settee cradling Grace dearly to her and, just like her baby, felt asleep in her husband's arms. Contented to have his Emma resting on his chest so sweetly and soundly and their daughter Grace sleeping, at last, peacefully in the arms of her mother, George clasped his family even closer to him, shut his eyes, allowing himself to drift into slumber.

While the Knightleys spent many subsequent nights in that same way at Donwell Abbey, Mr Woodhouse was steadily recovering from his tangled nerves. As Emma could not visit her father at Hartfield as often as she wished, Mrs Weston had taken the duty of watching over her former employer and her dearest friend's father and visited Mr Woodhouse every day. Over the course of the next three months, under the watchful eyes of the nurse, Mr Perry, and Mrs Weston, the old gentleman was progressing at an agreeable pace. He was able to sleep through most nights without disturbance, his appetite for thin gruel was gradually regaining its ground, and he was willing to spend several hours during the day sitting in his armchair by the fire without wishing to return to bed. His once very confused mind was less muddled, he no longer heard noises grinding in his head, and he seemed able to think nearly as clearly as before, forgotten memories began to come back to him… and because of these renewed memories… regrets began to fill the old man.

As Mr Woodhouse recalled the day he asked his beloved daughter to take her family and leave his house, tears began trickling down his bony jaw. It wrenched his old heart to realize what he had done to the one daughter who was nearly life to him. How he wished he could take back what he had said that fateful day, how he wished he could have her daughter and her family come back to live with him! But his fragile nerves would not let him. The nervous old man could not bear the thought of the haunting noises living in his head again, and he knew he would have to live with this regrets for the rest of his living.

Another month had gone by, whereas Mr Woodhouse was nearly fully recovered from his plight, baby Grace, albeit she had indeed made some improvements, as her ferocious cries were no longer piercing ears but merely making the face of anyone near her cringe, was still crying most hours of the day and night.

It was a typical afternoon at Donwell Abbey, where two maids lined the wall outside the nursery awaiting their mistress's disposal, and Emma, cradling her crying baby in her arms, walked to and fro the length inside the nursery, hoping that her daughter would willingly fall asleep by the rocking motion.

Despite that it was another futile effort, the patient mother kept her smile tender and her voice sweet as she sang to her baby. But her singing was interrupted unexpectedly when a maid came into the nursery and informed her that Mr Woodhouse was awaiting her presence in the Abbey drawing room.

Taken by surprise could not do justice to describe Emma's feeling at that moment. The daughter was utterly shocked. Her father had never called upon anybody without her accompanying him for as long as she could remember. Mrs Weston might have taken her place temporarily to watch over her father while she cared for her baby, but no one, not even Miss Taylor, could ever convince her father to leave his house other than her.

Emma gently handed baby Grace to one of the maids, examined her reflection in the mirror, and she let out a helpless sigh. She was wearing a very plain, old gown, did not seem fit for the Mistress of Donwell Abbey, and she looked pale and too thin, she knew her father would worry but she could hardly help it. She tucked the strands of hair fallen from her cap behind her ears, smoothed her rumpled gown with her hands quickly, and walked out of the nursery to the drawing room.

After she settled her father in the chair nearest the hearth and had tea brought in, the father and daughter sat awkwardly by each other. It felt awkward to Emma because when she was living in Hartfield, her father was the master and she the mistress, but now, while she was still the mistress, they were no longer in Hartfield, and her father had become her guest at Donwell. The daughter wished she had some interesting news to tell her father to amuse him, to lighten the air, but the best news she and George had was that Grace was now sleeping a full hour instead of only half an hour between her cries, and she did not think that would amuse her father.

Emma could not help but wonder why her old father had come, she could think of nothing that could have enticed him to leave his house. Before she was married, Donwell Abbey and Randalls were the two places that her father was willing to call. The Westons was the only family that her father used to visit often with her, but as the crying of Mrs Weston's baby hurt his ears, he had refrained from going to Randalls soon after baby Anna was born. And since then, with the union between her and George, there was no reason for Mr Woodhouse to visit Donwell Abbey while Mr Knightley was living in Hartfield, and her father was contented to stay behind the quiet Hartfield doors. Even the little card party that Emma made up for him with Mrs and Miss Bates and Mrs Goddard at Hartfield had become less frequent as the Bates spent much of their time in town with Frank and Jane Churchill, and her father, though often lamented the loss of his old friends to society, had grown even more reclusive to the outside world.

Had a sudden whim (however unlikely it was) struck her father's unimaginative mind, Emma reckoned, the rather breezy summer day and the clouds hovering in the sky since the morning surely would have deterred her father of any desire to come. She was sure there must be an important reason which had brought her father to the Abbey, and she noticed that he could barely look into her eyes when he spoke… but… her father had said very little throughout their meeting… the daughter was wracking her brain wondering what could be on her father's mind.

Suddenly, the faint cries of Grace grew louder, Emma's heart jumped. The maids must have opened the nursery door wishing to let their mistress know that they could not calm her fussing daughter… and Emma saw how her old father cringed… the sound of baby cries still rattled him.

Mr Woodhouse shifted very uneasily in his seat as the loudness of Grace's cries continue to climb, and finally he rose clumsily from the chair and asked his daughter to have James prepare the carriage for him to depart. Even though Emma wished her father would stay longer, she was anxious to go to her daughter as well, and she obligingly obeyed her father's wish and called the footman to look for James.

Before Mr Woodhouse stepped into the carriage, he paused and turned pensively to Emma. He had opened his mouth but then shut it without a word. Something immensely heavy seemed bearing in his chest waiting to be let out, but the old father could only cast his eyes at the ground beneath his feet. There was a considerable exertion on the old father's part before he could raise his eyes to speak to his daughter at last. Mr Woodhouse told Emma that Mrs Wright was a very good nurse, and Emma smiled to agree with him.

As another awkward silence fell between them, the wind began to whirl about the carriage, and Emma reached her hands to tighten the scarf round her father's neck very gently, just like she had done a thousand times before. The good daughter then patiently tucked the several strands of her father's silver hair behind his ears under his hat and fastened the button on his coat that had come off the buttonhole.

It was then, when she looked up from the button, she realized her father was looking at her in the same tender way that he had looked at her since she was a little girl but stopped months ago. And it was also then he told her that he would like to send his nurse to Donwell Abbey to help her care for baby Grace. Without understanding her father's meaning, Emma declined his offer at first, for the care and attendance of the nurse was the very thing that her father needed. But when Mr Woodhouse insisted that he would not have it otherwise, that his daughter must accept his offer, that he would wish nothing but the best for his baby granddaughter, it was in that moment, Emma, suddenly, with understanding, realised the true reason why her father had come – In his own subtle way, her father had come to tell her that he regretted that he had casted her and her family out of her childhood home!

In spite of how heartbroken she was, Emma loved her father too much to hold grudges against the decision he made four months ago, the loving daughter could never blame her father for making the decision that had eventually saved his life. But she was deeply grateful for her father's willingness to show her that he had his regrets.

The daughter accepted graciously her father's offer, and her eyes were filled with tears as she reached for her father's hand, bent, and kissed it with gratitude. And when she looked up, she caught the glistens in her father's eyes. Mr Woodhouse blinked rapidly as he averted his face as quickly as he could from his daughter's view, and he blamed the irritation of his eyes on the dust whirled by the wind as he turned to step into his carriage.

As the Hartfield carriage set off, Emma stood and waved to her father while he looked out the small window of the carriage, lingering his tender gaze at her until the carriage disappeared down along Donwell Lane. Her heart continued to suffuse with gratitude as she recalled that her father had not looked at her in that way since the night he told her that he wished she and George and their baby would leave Hartfield. The return of her father's tenderness uplifted a burden that Emma did not even know had been compressing her all this time.

The wind that suddenly whirled had disappeared, and the clouds that had been hovering all morning scattered to reveal the bright blue sky hidden above. The birds began to reclaim the branches that were temporarily taken hostage by the gloominess, and the joy and lightness in their songful chirpings echoed the gladness lilting in Emma's heart.

As her lightened steps carrying her back into the Abbey, Emma could not help but ruminate on the glistens in her father's eyes. Other than her husband George, her father was the most honest person Emma knew, but she was certain that she had just (the mischievous daughter grinned sweetly) caught her honest father told the first falsehood in his life. Her father could blame the irritation of his eyes on the dust in the wind, but the true reason that caused his eyes to well, Emma knew, in the heart of her heart, could only be – Love!

Not long since that day, baby Grace began to show steady signs of improvement, and by the time she turned nine months old, she was making progress in leaps and bounds. Her face-cringing cries began to wane, her appetite for her mother's nourishment grew substantially, and she was sleeping more than two hours at a stretch, and such stretches came at a far more predictable and agreeable frequency. With these encouraging improvements, the toll on the infant's loving parents was beginning to ease. Emma, now the more experienced mother, was slowly recovering her bloom by being able to rest longer as her child did and without that constant feeling of helplessness to care for her precious daughter robbing her spirit. And George, the always devoted husband and father, was beyond elated, and relieved, to see that both his beloved wife and child were beginning to settle into a more agreeable life, hence the entire Knightley family of three was moving towards a much brighter direction.

By the time baby Grace reached her first birthday, she was babbling and walking and getting into mischiefs. Her once ear-piercing screams could no longer be heard even if one had wished to hear them. Rather than making the face of those near her cringe, the adored child was making everybody laugh and smile. The perfect bloom in Emma, by this time, had recovered to its full beauty, and for which her loving husband George was eternally grateful. The joy that was cut short when the mother and father first received their infant daughter was returning to the couple in many, many, many folds.

While everyone celebrated for the Knightleys (including the Knightleys themselves) and put the distressing memories behind them, Mr Woodhouse, the old father and grandfather, never did forget the decision he made that forced his daughter out of his house, and he had not been able to acquit himself from the immense guilt and regrets that he kept deep inside his heart.

Every now and then, in the privacy of the old man's loneliness, and in moments that often caught him by surprise, the deep pain of regrets would surface from his heart and took over his entire countenance. And tonight, after more than two years since his daughter and her family removed from his house, and in the presence of his granddaughter, came one of those painful moments…

"Why are you sad, Grandpapa?" the very intelligent and astute two-year-old asked her grandfather.

"_Oh_…" the kind voice of the sweet child awakened Mr Woodhouse from his sombre reverie, "do… do I look sad… my dear?"

"Hum, hum," little Grace nodded.

Mr Woodhouse blinked his eyes quickly and swallowed what was clamping his throat.

"Nurse said that Mama and Papa, particularly _Mama_, were very sad when they left Hartfield to remove to Donwell!" imparted the little girl.

The clump that was constricting his throat struck Mr Woodhouse instantly; and mist began to blur the vision of the old man.

"Were you sad when Mama and Papa removed to Donwell, Grandpapa?" enquired little Grace.

Two pearly tears broke from Mr Woodhouse's eyes and fell down his jaw.

Watching the sadness of her grandpapa, the usually very lively two-year-old turned solemn, and she lifted her small palms to wipe the tears off her grandfather's face.

"I am sorry, Grandpapa!" said the little girl with angelic sincerity.

Mr Woodhouse quickly took the handkerchief out of his pocket to dry the rest of the tears in his eyes. He looked puzzled and confused and asked as soon as his eyes were dried, "Why are you sorry, my child?"

"Nurse said that Mama and Papa had to leave Hartfield because of me… She said that I was crying all the time and making you very unhappy…" The dear child looked down at her slippers with guilt uncommon to children her age. "I am very sorry for being such a troublesome creature, Grandpapa…"

"_Oh no_!" cried Mr Woodhouse, immediately reaching his hands to pull his granddaughter to him.

And with strength that he did not have, the old grandfather, without as much as a thought, lifted Grace onto his knee and looked deeply in her eyes. "My dearest Grace," he said to her, "you were _not_ the troublesome creature who caused your parents to leave Hartfield! It was _I,_ your grandpapa, who _was_ the troublesome one!"

"But how could you be troublesome, Grandpapa?" the sweet child returned innocently. "Other than the small eggs you eat that look quite _disgusting_, you are _always_ happy with your gruel and your newspapers _and_ your blankets and thick coats! You are _never _troublesome, Grandpapa!"

If the old Hartfield Master had not laughed in two and a half years, the merry chuckles that just exploded out of him was sufficient to make up for all the laughter he had missed all this time!

The jostling of her grandpapa's skinny belly was amusing little Grace so much that she began to chime in Mr Woodhouse's chuckling with her own melodious giggles. The grandfather and granddaughter chortled together in this joyful manner for quite some time until both their jaws grew sore.

As soon as their cheeriness subsided, Mr Woodhouse asked the little one, "Tell me, my dearest Grace – Are your mother and father happy living in Donwell Abbey?"

"Oh, _yes!_ Mama and Papa are _very_ happy at Donwell Abbey! You know the Abbey is our home, do not you, Grandpapa?" Little Grace gave her grandfather a knowing look. Then she added with animation, "Papa _always_ makes Mama and me laugh and I dare say when William learns how to laugh Papa shall tickle him till his belly hurt! My Mama is the _most_ _beautiful_ lady in the world, Grandpapa! But Papa could make Mama look even prettier when he speaks into her ear and make her face colour like pink roses! And Papa is always happy when he sees Mama, William, and _me!_"

The joyful milk-toothy smile on the sweet child had just lit a fiery glow in Mr Woodhouse's heart!

"And _you_, my dearest Grace," the grandfather added, "are you happy at Donwell Abbey?"

"_Of course_, I am happy at home! I am the _happiest_ one in the world because my Mama and Papa love me _very_ much! And I love Mama and Papa and William – and – _you_, Grandpapa!"

And before the grandfather could blink, his granddaughter had already his neck wrapped in her small arms and squeezed more chortles out of him.

With happy tears wetting his eyes, the grandfather clasped his granddaughter in his arms tightly and told her, "My _dearest_, _dearest_ Grace, Grandpapa loves you _very_ much, too!"

The dear child pressed a resounding kiss on her grandpapa's cheek and then pulled away to look at him.

"Do you want to see my frog, Grandpapa?" she asked, with a wide grin.

"You have a _frog_?" asked the grandfather, surprised.

"Hum, hum," Grace nodded. "But Mama would not let me bring him to Hartfield! She says you do not approve animals in the house because you think they are filthy. But if you wish to see him, Grandpapa, you could come to Donwell Abbey. Mama let me keep Mr Larkins in a large basket, but she said he would be the happiest in the garden and I could keep him for several days before setting him free!"

Mr Woodhouse listened intently to Grace, nodded, and grinned.

"Are not you going to finish reading the advertisement to me, Grandpapa?" Little Grace pointed at the newspaper.

"_Of course_, my dear, of course!"

Unlike earlier in the hour, when it was the wish of the languid old man to pass his grandchild off to her mother, father, nurse, or maid – now – the grandfather could hardly tame the flutters in his old heart as he willingly and very happily met his dear granddaughter's request!

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

Quarter of an hour later, Emma and George, with William in George's arms, had emerged from the nursery. When they reappeared in the drawing room – somewhat anxiously, as the mother and father were not sure how their old father fared with their lively child – they were met with one of the most endearing images they had ever seen…

Somewhere between the reading of the _Essence of Mustard Pills for Flying Pains_ and _Live and Potted Turtles for Sale at J. Townsend Tavern, _the old grandfather had gotten fatigue and fallen asleep, and as the two-year-old was not able to read sentences yet, the granddaughter followed the footstep of her grandpapa and fell into sweet slumber. While little Grace nestled like a new born kitten against her grandfather's chest, Mr Woodhouse's head had dipped so low that one could no longer see his face, but hear the rumbling of his snores and notice the streaks of his drool between his jaw and neck cloth!

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

Grandchildren being invited to Mr Woodhouse's chamber to bid him goodnight was a tradition that Isabella started in order for her children to feel closer to their grandfather, whom they only visited no more than several times a year. Emma loved the tradition her sister started so much that she had insisted the same when Grace was grown enough to afford them visiting her father every day and dine at Hartfield every night. It was customary for George, Emma, and their children to escort Mr Woodhouse to his bedchamber and bade him goodnight before he retired. But tonight, something extraordinary happened…

Though many a night grandchildren went visiting their grandparent in his room, their visits were always kept very brief and well superintended, never had any one of them been invited to sit on their grandfather's bed, for children were generally too vivacious for the old gentleman's liking and their friskiness could easily disturb his delicate nerves. But – tonight – two-year-old Grace Isabella Knightley was asked by her grandfather to sit by his side on his bed! And it went without saying that Grace's mother and father were put to dismay by such invitation.

Now, no sooner was she invited to sit by her grandpapa, as it was one of the rapscallion's favourite pastimes, little Grace leapt to her stockinged feet and began bouncing up and down on her grandfather's mattress.

Instantly, Grace's mother Emma was mortified by her child's impertinence. For, albeit she herself had climbed onto her father's bed many times when she was a child bidding her father sweet dreams, knowing that her father would be horrified by such unruly deportment, little Emma never did dare to bounce on her father's mattress. But, to Emma and George's greatest surprise, not only was Mr Woodhouse the least horrified, he was cheering and chuckling and clapping his hands by the gaiety of little Grace.

And to complete the astonishment of the shocked Emma and George, the old gentleman told the couple that he would be calling Donwell Abbey the very next day, rain or sun, summer storm or scorching heat, nothing short of fixing him to his grave could prevent him from taking his excursion – for the grandfather _must_ see his granddaughter's frog to find out for himself if the creature indeed frown like the _human_ Mr Larkins before his grandchild must set the creature free!

* * *

_*Princess Charlotte died after giving birth to a stillborn son on November 6, 1817. According to R.W. Champman's Oxford Illustrated Jane Austen, Vol. IV the events in Emma took place during 1813-1814. In this story, I have Emma pregnant with her and Mr Knightley's first child shortly after they married. Assuming that Champman's chronology is correct, this means I have pushed the events in the novel about three years out so that I could reference Princess Charlotte – for the reason that I fancy that the Knightleys and Woodhouses were very much loved by the locals, as Great Britain cared for its princess. _

* * *

_A/N: JA told her family that Mr Woodhouse would only live two more years after Emma and Mr Knightley married before the couple could live in Donwell Abbey. I didn't like that idea, didn't think that it had to happen like that, and decided to take the liberty to rewrite what was never written. :) _

_Blessings could come in all shapes and forms and sometimes from what seem very unfortunate events... __Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting, please know that your kind words would never go unappreciated! :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Warning:** Mature-ish content towards the middle of the chapter, nothing graphic however…_

* * *

**Part VII**

She was sitting in front of the mirror, but was too distracted to settle her gaze at her own reflection or any one place. The sparkles in her hazel eyes glowed and kindled as joy overflowing in her heart. The entire time when her maid was brushing her hair and dressing it for the night, her mind was buzzing over a potpourri of possibilities, and her tingling lips scintillating somewhere between an endearing smile and a mischievous grin.

The maid had tucked the lustrous hair of her mistress under the ruffled nightcap, only leaving several ringlets to frame her mistress's lovely face. It was when she had finished tying the string of her mistress's cap that she saw her master had come into the room through the connecting door between the Master and Mistress Chambers. The maid quietly went to the four-post bed and lowered the curtains as her last order of the night, and then curtsied to her master and mistress before quietly slipping away from their presence.

The masculine image of her husband reflected in the mirror quickly caught her eyes and snapped Emma out of her distractions. She spun her lithe body around the mahogany chair and bounded sprightly up to him.

"Oh, George!" she spoke with gaiety afloat in the air and took both his strong hands with her delicate ones, "Have you ever seen Father with so much animation before?"

He smiled, looking at her with admiration and adoration, his eyes dancing with excitement of a different sort, and he had kept his tender gaze on his wife's beautiful, beautiful face.

"Father _is_ to come to Donwell Abbey the morrow!" she held his hands over her bubbling heart, the lightness of her spirit could nearly lift her off her feet. "He had not come to the Abbey since Grace was seven months old! And he had never, _ever, _initiated any, _any,_ outing on his own! Have you ever seen Father so happy before tonight, George?"

He considered the question, but had something far better in mind – He had not seen his Emma with so much exuberance since she told him she was with their second child, and he would rather bask in her plethora of spirit, the source of his joy, than spoiling it with words that were deemed commonplace. The husband, with amusement quirking his lips, shook his head slightly, kept his admiring gaze on the apple of his eyes.

"Father had wished nothing but his gruel and advertisers for the past three years, there had been scarcely any pleasure in his life! I think…" she paused to think for a brief moment, "Father must be ready to increase his pleasure now…" her mind churning quickly, "the card-party at Hartfield _must _resume!" she remarked doggedly. "I _ought _to send invitations to Mrs and Miss Bates and Mrs Goddard the morrow and invite them to Hartfield for supper in two days!"

Emma let go of George's hands from her heart and flew to the writing desk, pulling out inkstand, paper, and quill to draft the invitations. And George, feeling the warmth and softness of his wife disappearing, followed her heels to the writing desk.

"_Mr Woodhouse…" _she began, "_presents his compliments…" _dipping the quill in the inkstand, "_to Mrs and Miss Bates…" _but no sooner had she dipped the quill in the ink again, she paused and stared at the paper.

"Oh, George!" Emma suddenly looked up, eyes beaming even brighter and livelier at him, "The Churchills shall be returning to Highbury in _three_ weeks…"

Still, not a word from the patient husband, but he lifted a curious eyebrow at his wife.

"Do not you think…" springing up to her feet, abandoning the quill and invitations, "Do not you think it would please Father to have a dinner party for the Churchills at Hartfield?" Emma asked George with great anticipation. "We could invite the Bates, the Westons, the Coles… even the Eltons to Hartfield so that Father shall have plenty of company to visit with!"

"Emma," the husband, at last, broke his silence, "your father had not wished for any party since we married…"

"But, that was before tonight, George!" she looked a little let down, "You just agreed that you had not seen Father happier before..."

The husband hated to see the pout on his wife, but he was always honest with her. "And I am still in agreement with it. But a dinner party of this size when your father had refused to entertain for so long seems quite drastic to me."

"But there _is _a drastic improvement in Father, George!" laying her hands on his forearm as she pleaded, "Father was a completely different person when we bade him goodnight tonight. He had _never _allowed Isabella or me to bounce on his bed – not that Isabella had ever wished to bounce on even her _own_ bed – but Father could never bear the liveliness in children. The way Father clapped and cheered for Grace was like he was a new person to me! I thought it was very brave of you to let Grace stay with Father tonight… I wonder…" Emma drifted into contemplation, "what Grace had said to Father to bring this much change in him…"

George chuckled, the thought of their children always brought merriment in him. "I wonder about that, too, my love! But no matter what Grace had said to your Father, I am afraid our daughter might be supplanting your place in your father's heart very soon."

Smiling up at him in contentment, "Oh, George," said Emma, "as long as Father is happy, Grace could succeed my place in Father's heart _any_ time!"

The husband, encircling the waist of his wife with his hands, gently pulled her close to him, smiling proudly at her, "I am glad you do not mind, Emma!"

Pressing her hands on his chest, "Not even the _slightest_!" she imparted wholeheartedly, "I am only grateful that Grace could have such influence on Father!"

"But" returning to the notion in her head, "do you really think that it is too soon for a dinner party at Hartfield for Father?" she pleaded.

"For now, why do not we start with the card-party, Emma?" suggested George. "To ease your father back into society…"

"And" the husband had not finished his speech, but his beloved wife could not wait to finish it for him, "if Father is pleased with the card-party, we shall speak with him about the dinner-party for the Churchills?"

"Hmm…" George clasped Emma closer to him, "and if it would please your father – _and_ – you_,"_ he let go of one hand from her waist and pinched her lovely nose affectionately with his fingers, "we could give a dinner party for the Churchills at the Abbey, to double the pleasure of your Father – _and_ – you_!_"

"_Oh! _Thank you, George!" Emma threw her arms round George's neck, leaping off the floor, "Thank you, _thank_ _you_ so much! I love you, _I love you_, George!"

"And _I_ love you, Emma!" the husband eagerly received his happy wife, lifting her off the ground in his arms for a moment. Her enticing person pressing intimately against him with only two thin layers of cotton from his nightshirt and her nightdress between them was driving this patient husband mad!

George lowered Emma gently onto the oaken floor, still clasping her tightly to him but tilting her face up with a tender finger.

"I hope you have not forgotten our meeting tonight, Emma…" the masculine husband had softened his voice to give way to tenderness reserved only for his darling wife.

Eyes shimmering with tenderness of the same deepness, Emma blushed demurely and ravishingly, and shook her head. "I was only distracted by the change in Father tonight… But I would never forget _us_, you _silly_ goose… " sweetly, she reassured him.

He felt relieved, a sheepish smile broke out of his handsome face as he confessed, "For a moment I thought Mrs Knightley had left the Abbey and Miss Woodhouse had moved into the house…"

She let out a lovely little laugh, "But it would be scandalous to find Miss Woodhouse in such state of undress, and…" her blush was even more ravishing now, she dipped her head and said shyly, "in the arms… of… a man…"

"Not when," once again, he lifted her exquisite face to look up at him, "Miss Woodhouse _is_ Mrs Knightley – _and_ – the man who had the fortune to be with her _is_ Mr Knightley… "

Flushing her person, so alluringly soft and tantalizingly warm, against his, the wife, standing on the tips of her toes, with her arms wrapping around his neck and her fingers tenderly raking his hair, gazing up at her husband, whispered adoringly, and bewitchingly, to him, "The _one…_and _only_… Mr George Knightley…"

After a fortnight of being away, not even considering the several months before and after the birth of their infant son, which had kept the two lovers apart, George could no longer withhold his long suffering desire.

"My _dearest, dearest Emma_… I have missed you _so much_…" declared the husband, lowering his longing lips onto his wife's for a kiss that sang the prelude of what was to come.

The kiss which had begun delicately was elevating rapidly into passions reflecting the insufferable longings they held within. As their lips fused in the amatory kisses, George had untied Emma's nightcap and tossed it onto the writing desk, letting her beautiful curls cascade down her shoulders and his fingers submerge under the silky strands.

And when the lush sensation of her opulent silk no longer satisfied his longing, his hand descended from her tresses to the curve of her elegant neck, and to the rosette buttons on the neckline of her cotton nightdress. With schooled patience, he unfastened the tiny barriers and allowed his voracious mouth traversing from her sweet supple lips, to her captivating collar bone, and unto her wildly fluttering heart.

The sumptuousness of the kisses could only appease his thirst for her in part, it could hardly contain the fire in his desire, the husband could no longer bear the torture, with fervour and determination, he lifted his wife in his arms and brought her to their bed – though they were in the Mistress Chamber, it was _their _bed, for, since they had removed to the Abbey, George had spent only a handful of nights, due to inconsequential illnesses on either Emma's or his part, in the Master Chamber. As the couple was too much in love to spend the nights apart in separate bedchambers, albeit the loving and sensible husband was always mindful of not subjecting his Emma to the risk of frequent childbirths, sleeping not in each other's arms seemed preposterous to both the man and wife.

He had laid his love on their bed; her luminous locks spreading across the plush pillow, spilling luxuriously onto the satin bedcovers. He was kneeling over her – adoring her! It did not matter how ravenous he was for her, he always paused to drink in her beauty, which lied not merely in her form and face of natural perfection, but also in her grace that was so artlessly unconscious of her own pulchritude, in her heart which she had given so fully to him and their children, and in her liveliness that had matured with understanding and radiated warmth to those near her.

She loved that he loved looking at her! There used to be times, it was when they were first engaged and married, she felt embarrassed by the way he looked at her. She could see the contentment and admiration shining through his eyes, but she had felt unequal to him. His uprightness, his superior characters, at times, had made her feel ashamed of her imperfections, but she had endeavoured to be worthy of him, and he had helped her overcome her sense of inferiority to him. The husband and wife had long become equals in every way – in their hearts, in their spirits, and in their love. And now, she no longer felt embarrassed when his loving gaze was upon her, but cherished how his sparkling dark eyes adored her, loved her, how his tantalising gaze caress every inch, every feature, every curve of her, and touched her soul.

She was melting under his sultry eyes! When a husband and wife who were as much in love as this couple, the desire in Emma for George was just as intense as his for her. Her yearning gaze was locked within his, and she had reached her hands for him, tugging invitingly at his nightshirt, and such invitation was all that was needed. Urgently, yet tenderly, he pressed himself against her, sank his famished lips deep onto her lips and let his masterly hand indulged in her sensuous person.

In the enthralling soundlessness of the chamber, punctuated by the intoxicating rhythms of their breathless kisses and the occasional pauses of their luscious exhales, the sweet atmospheric enchantment had sealed the lovers in their private Eden. His mouth had followed the magnetising drumming of her heart, leaving trail of kisses on her velvety eyelids, the corners of her honey mouth, the ticklish soft skin between the back of her ears and her silken long neck. His own heart hastened as his lips came near her heart, where he buried his enamoured kisses in the rising and falling of her heavenly bosoms. And when the insatiable desire within him surged, his hand, which had been rummaging every contour of his divine Venus, sought hurriedly the hem of her nightdress. As George impatiently discarding Emma's cotton nightdress to the unoccupied quarter of the bed, Emma's own dexterous fingers quickened to unfasten the buttons on George's nightshirt, desperate to remove the last barrier between them.

In the midst of their ardency, where there was only the husband and wife in their impassioned world, and all their senses were raptured for no one, nothing, but one another. They could hear the rousing heart of each other beating faster and faster, feel every movement of each other under their skin, and sense every muscle in them tightened by the touch of the other; it was little wonder that the breeze which brushed their entangled legs when the bed-curtains were lifted ajar had silently escaped the two lovers.

But when, suddenly, out of nowhere, without warning, so utterly unexpected – and – infinitely cruel, a voice abruptly pierced the enraptured silence of the lovers' world…

"Come_ off_ of Mama, Papa! You shall _crush_ her… Come off_, _Papa_… come off!_"

As the voice of the child attacked Emma and George's ears, so were the small hands of the two-year-old attacking her father's back, pushing and pulling him away from her mama as she demanded.

Like a lightning bolt had struck a lone tree down to its roots, the little voice, the small hands – the violent shocks – instantly caused the husband to jump off of his wife, off the bed, to his feet!

"_Grace!" _Shocked, shaken, confused, but most of all – mortified. "_What_… _What_ are you doing here?" George blurted out loudly, but not without first checking himself, and thanking, silently and wholeheartedly, the Almighty that his nightshirt was still largely intact on him, albeit his buttons had all been unfastened and couple of them were nowhere near sight!

Unfortunately, that was not the case with Emma…

The flickering candles, which the husband had purposely left burning so he could see and relish the full beauty of his wife and the gorgeous glow of her skin as their intimacy progressed, had afforded a clear view of his wife to their daughter.

Standing next to the vast bed with furrowed brows, "_Mama_, you shall catch _cold_!" the child cried disbelievingly.

Poor Emma, who bolted up sitting on the bed when George flew off of her, was frantically grasping whatever within her reach. As she was sitting on the bedcovers and her nightdress had been tossed to the far side of the bed by George, the mortified mother seized the crushed pillow behind her and threw it in front of her bare self.

"Grandpapa would not like that you are naked in your room, Mama…" uttered little Grace, wondering why it was so bad that she could not tell her grandfather that she ran with her protruding belly half-naked in her room when her mother was completely naked in her bed.

"_DO NOT…" _the poor mother panicked, but quickly checked the loudness of her voice, "Do not… _please_ Grace… do not tell your grandfather!" she swallowed. "You know how… how it would worry your grandpapa if… if he knew that Mama might catch cold… do not you?"

Even though her father had fathered Isabella and her, knew all about the _matter_ between a man and his wife, Emma would rather dig a hole and hide for the rest of her natural life in it than having her father picture what she and George were doing as husband and wife!

By this time, George had gone to the foot of the bed and fetched Emma's nightdress and her dressing gown and wrapped her tightly in it. He had also thrown his dressing gown over his shoulders and tightened the string round his waist.

"I shall not tell Grandpapa, Mama…" Surely, little Grace would never wish her grandpapa to worry. "But you must not play in your room without a dress again… Do you promise?"

"Of… of course, my dear!" Still mortified, but relieved, the mother said with a stiff smile.

George watched the crimson colour on Emma's face deepened, and he shared her embarrassment. But the exchange between his wife and daughter was singularly precious to him, and the blush on his lovely wife was too attractive for him to feel sorry for the situation. He stood amusingly by the bed, contented at the scene before his eyes, until Grace turned to look up at him and asked…

"Were you wrestling with Mama, Papa?"

"_Huh_…" The question caught the father by surprise, his own face coloured.

"You are too _big, _Papa!" said the little one, shaking her head, "Mama and Nurse would never let me wrestle with William!"

"You are not allowed to wrestle because it is most unladylike, Grace…" explained her father.

"_And _because I am _too_ _big_ for William!" little Grace knitted her brows, "Mama says I could crush him! You are too big for Mama, you know, you could crush her! You must not wrestle with Mama again, Papa!"

While their daughter was lecturing her husband, innocently of course, Emma had hastened to put on her nightdress and dressing gown. Though her cheeks were still pinked with embarrassment, she was amused by what her dear child had said to George.

How the father loved the innocence of his daughter! George bent and scooped Grace in his arms, smiling warmly, "Papa was not wrestling with your mother, Grace, and I promise that I shall always treat your mother with utmost gentleness and care," and he gave Emma a playful wink of an eye.

The two-year-old was satisfied and her furrowed brows eased.

But she succeeded immediately. "If you were not wrestling, what game were you playing with Mama, Papa?"

He should have seen this coming from his inquisitive child. _So much like her mother_ – George chuckled inside – _But how could a two-year-old comprehend the pure and sublime pleasure, blessed by matrimony and ordained by the Creator between a husband and his wife who were most ardently in love…_

Placing Grace on his lap, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Emma.

"You are too young to know this game, Grace," replied the father, and with gentleness and kindness and fatherly wisdom he said, "but when you grow up and married to a husband who loves you more than anything in this world, you will understand."

George turned his gaze to Emma, who was smiling adoringly at him, and her soft eyes were looking into his with admiration and deepest love. For a moment, the world had returned to being just the two of them. Emma slipped her hand quietly into George's free hand, leaning into him, pressing a tender kiss on his cheek and then another one on Grace's.

A beautiful silence held the husband and wife and their daughter for a moment, until a yawn broke out of little Grace.

"Why are you up at this hour, Grace?" curiously, the father inquired.

"I want Mama…" the droopy-eyed child replied.

"Where is Lucy?" her father asked.

"She is outside… I do not want Lucy…" the sleepy child shook her head, another yawn broke out of her. "I want Mama…" she said.

"The night after you left," Emma interposed, placing her hand on George's arm, "the thunders had awakened Grace, and she has been waking up at night since then…"

George clasped Grace close to him, resting her head on his shoulder and said softly into her ear, "Papa shall take you to your room and read stories to you…"

Rubbing her eyes with her small hands, Grace shook her head, "I do not want stories… I want Mama…"

"It is very late, Grace, your mother must be fatigued…" pleaded the father. "Papa will give you tickles…"

But that would not do for the two-year-old!

The irritable child pushed herself away from her father, "I do not want tickles, I want Mama… I want Mama to come!" and reached both hands unyieldingly for her mother.

Emma gently took Grace into her arms, "That night" speaking to George as she soothed the back of their two-year-old, "after the thunders woke her up, she cried for hours, and I held her in her bed until she fell asleep…"

"And she had been coming to you every night?" surmised George, Emma nodded slowly. "And you have been holding her to sleep every night since then?"

Emma nodded to George again, helplessness in her eyes.

George sighed, admitting to himself that perhaps what he and Emma started earlier that night would have to carry on the next night.

"I want you to come, Mama… _Come_…" tired tears were welling in the child's eyes; little Grace rubbed her face irritably against her mother's shoulder and cried.

"Yes, Grace, Mama is coming with you…" With their two-year-old in her arms, Emma removed herself from her and George's bed, the guilt in her eyes beckoned George to forgive her for leaving him for their daughter.

The husband smiled helplessly at his wife, escorted her and their daughter to their daughter's chamber, tucked both of them in the child's bed, and walked out of the room quietly, and lonelily, into the dark corridor. Slowly, he closed the door to the Master Chamber behind him, and sat down, alone, on the vast bed, trying to remember when was the last time he had spent the night in his own room…

* * *

_A/N: It was with much trepidation that I posted this chapter. I felt that the content/concept might be pushing this chapter above the T rating, in fact, I rated this story T in anticipation of this chapter, but either I marked the story complete by end of last chapter or I stuck with what I had in mind to advance the story… I had been sitting on the draft of this chapter for probably good two months, I tried to cut parts of the scene but it wouldn't do (I needed it also for the rest of the chapter)… anyway, as I do like very much the rest of the story and this was written already, I thought I would continue with the hope that the scene would not offend anyone's sensibility… _

_Many thanks for reading; and many, many thanks for commenting! :-)_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thank you for your comments for last chapter! To the Guest who has been leaving comments - Thanks so much for enjoying this story! :) _

**Part VIII**

George Knightley – handsome, sensible, and rich, with a very comfortable home and a beautiful family, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly forty-two years in the world with very little (except about four years ago when he thought he had lost his one true love to an 'amiable' young man) to distress or vex him – could not sleep!

He had tossed, he had turned, curled up on his left, curled up on his right, laid on his back, and on his stomach, in spite of how he tried, he could not fall asleep. It was the third consecutive night since his return from the Assize Court that he was thrown into such predicament – where his two-year-old daughter had walked into the Mistress Chamber and whisked (more like pleaded to tell the truth) away his wife from him, and he was left, lying lonelily in the bed which he had not the habit of sleeping in, staring blankly into the darkness, struggling to find the reason for that unrest, listless, discorded feeling in his chest.

This gentleman, the Master of Donwell Abbey, a capable (_highly_ capable if he were not also modest) landlord and a commanding magistrate, a man of sense and self-restrains, and the father of his son and daughter, resisted – with every muscle in his brain, every good sense bestowed upon him by the gracious Almighty, and every reason his intelligence could conceive – the notion that he was jealous of his own children.

It would be Foolishness – extreme _Foolishness_ – to be jealous of his daughter and son, who were the beautiful labour of love between him and Emma, and whom they loved more than their own lives. The sleep-deprived man was adamant of his resistance, particularly – _particularly –_ as a man who had tasted the bitterness of the unbecoming sentiment against a young man whom he once thought had stolen the only woman he loved!

_As it was not Jealousy… then… it could only be… Envy…_

Yes, he was certain – he was envious of his children, envious of his son who could spend nearly all his waking hours with his beloved wife while he must be off to be faithful to his tenants and citizens and all who depended upon him; envious of his daughter whom had been cradled, every night for over a fortnight, to sleep in his darling wife's sweet bosom while he laid all night – _alone_ – in his bed counting the golden tassels dangling from the blue valances on top of the bedstead where the bed-curtains hung!

_But… would not it be the same Foolishness to be envious of his own children?_

This man of sense wavered in his own conjecture. Fully aware that his infant son needed his mother, like every beast needed its mother to nurture it to independence whether it was a bull calf, a gosling, a baby duck, a new born kitten, or a bear cub; the bond between a mother and her child was the greatest gift Nature had given to mankind, the beauteous work of the Maker. Besides, this most fortunate man took deep gratification in the way his wife loved their children – his Emma, whom he had called lack of patience and industry when she was a girl, possessed patience and endurance for their son and daughter beyond any mother he knew, had he been able to foretell the beauty of his wife's ultimate nature, he would never have named her such.

And to call himself envious of his daughter seemed unjust to his true feeling. When their beloved daughter came running for her mother with her pleading looks and helpless cries, in spite of the fact that it was the duty of the nursery maid to keep watch of their child at night, the coxing of a thousand maids could not compare to the loving embrace in her mother's arms, how could he not surrender his wife willingly to their two-year-old!

_If it could not be Jealousy… and it was not Envy… Why had he been brooding and sulking like a damn Fool for the last three nights? _

This most sensible, most fortunate, most ardently-in-love man at length gave up his struggle, sat up, raked his long fingers through his tousled hair, and sighed…

_The truth was… he was feeling sorry for himself!_

He had been away from home for a fortnight, by day he was faithfully attending his duties as a magistrate, by night, he was missing his family, his children, and most of all – his wife.

The alluringness of the London town life did not move him. Many men, even respectable men with wives and families, fell prey to the glamour of town and to the charms of those ladies, who dressed in their fineries and enticing ways with intentions that were not entirely innocent. But even with the multitude of charming beauties, who had batted at him their coquettish lashes, laughed flirtatiously to him for no apparent amusing reason, or offered their dainty gloved hands for him to kiss when all he ever meant was to bow, in London, or anywhere he went for that matter, his Emma was the only beauty ever to capture his eyes!

When he was a bachelor, being away from Donwell meant that he would spend his evenings planning the next quarter session, the coming planting season or harvest time, foresee the needs of the home farm, his tenants and the poor, to mitigate the effects of a heavy rainfall or a drought. Many a night, in the solitude of his inn chamber, he might wonder how the whist party at the Crown went without him, but was always able to brush the thoughts aside with ease and turned his mind back to his plans or agricultural journals. Yet, there was one thought, one image in particular, which held the power to keep his mind from all that seemed more important – It was the night scene in the Hartfield drawing room, where Mr Woodhouse and his youngest daughter sitting by the glowing hearth, the old gentleman would ask if he had had a shocking walk from the Abbey, and, with a wide grin, he would lift his foot for Mr Woodhouse to show him that not even a speck of mud had gotten onto his boots; but, somehow, while the exchange was with his family's old friend, the corners of his eyes always wandered to the old gentleman's daughter, and he would be delighted by the quivering quirks on her mouth.

He had spent much of his time wondering what his young friend was thinking when he answered her father – Was she amused by her father's endless solicitudes… or was she laughing at his ridiculous gesture of showing her father his clean boot!

And the twinkles in her brilliant hazel eyes and the arches of her perfectly shaped eyebrows had given him many hours of wonderment as well. There seemed endless mischiefs whirling in her mind. He had known her all her life, there was not an inkling of mean spirit in her, but whatever she was thinking must be machinations or whims to keep her amused in her rather confined and restrictive life. He would have given anything to know the scheme she was contriving when the sparkles in her eyes danced.

He had watched her grow from a fresh face girl to a beautiful young woman seemingly in a blink of an eye. The fact that she was so unaware of her own beauty had made it easy for him to set aside his own awareness of her perfect form. And yet, his young friend's loveliness had become, unconsciously to him at the time, the standard of which he would measure all the women he met against.

There were never a lack of pretty ladies in his acquaintances; John and his university fellows were forever presenting heiresses, daughters of some judges, or young widows of deceased peers to him whenever he was in town. Albeit the ladies whom had been foisted his way were all well-bred gentlewomen, many of them were too haughty to his taste, even his rank-conscientious Hartfield young friend would never look down upon anyone with so much arrogance. Some of the ladies were both pretty and tolerably intelligent, but they seemed insipid when compared to the wit and cleverness and the unassuming beauty of his mischievous young friend. And then there were those who were, he could not deny, ravishing beauties, but unfortunately it seemed to him that their outward appearances were all that those ladies clung onto, none of the liveliness, kind-heartedness, and generosity that Mr Woodhouse's youngest daughter possessed could be spotted in them.

Though at the time he could hardly notice what his unconscious heart had done to him, practically every woman he met had met with the same doomed fate of being compared to his young friend at Hartfield. And when being asked what he thought of those ladies by the well-intended, he automatically gave a polite smile and was quick to turn everyone's attention to the subjects of farm improvements or the war against France.

The way George's heart worked truly had not changed much since he married; the only disparity was that now he was fully conscious of the reason why no woman other than his Emma could delight his heart and bewitch every sense in him. This was why it had been torturous to this husband that he could not even have an uninterrupted night with his wife since his return.

_But… a man of sense would never indulge in self-pity… nor fold his arms and wish his situation would resolve itself…_

For this very reason, rather than allowing himself to sulk until exhaustion took reins every night, this man of sense resolved to face the matter boldly and decided that – _he and his two-year-old daughter needed to talk!_

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

It was a typical morning at Donwell Abbey, where in the parlour next to the flower garden, Mr and Ms Knightley and their beloved daughter, with their son in the arms of the nursery maid standing near them, gathered for breakfast as the family's daily ritual.

"Grace," replacing her tea cup on the saucer, Emma turned to speak to her daughter, "I think it is time to let Mr Larkins go home."

What her mama said had sufficiently distracted the child from stacking the toasts on her plate to form a fortress to protect the strawberries from getting eaten by the kippers.

Little Grace looked up at her mother and said, pouting, "Must Mr Larkins go home so soon, Mama? He seems happy in his basket! I gave him a lotus leaf yesterday as a bed and I think he likes it very much!"

"That is very kind of you, Grace. But do not you think Mr Larkins would be much happier in the pond where he could sleep in any lotus leaf and splash water whenever he wishes?"

Grace adored her mother, and she knew her mother was right, as she always was. But it was difficult to let go of Mr Larkins whom she had caught with her own hands and who had become a dear little friend to her.

She went silent, through the tall windows she looked out to the part of the garden where she had caught her frog, then to the direction of the pond. As her eyes wandered back inside the parlour, she caught sight of her infant brother fidgeting in the arms of the maid.

Emma saw that Grace's eyes were resting on her baby brother; she took the opening and said...

"Humph… I wonder if Mr Larkins has a brother…"

Grace instantly turned to her mother and asked, "You think Mr Larkins has a _brother_, Mama?"

"Humph, I do not know, Grace, but surely you have seen other frogs in the garden."

Little Grace nodded. "Do you think he has a baby brother?" the two-year-old asked.

"Perhaps…"

"Do you think he misses his baby brother?"

"I am not certain, Grace. But what do _you_ think? Do you think he would miss his baby brother _if_ he had one?"

"_Err_…" the child considered seriously, "It would be very sad if Mr Larkins had a baby brother and he had been missing him…" she muttered. "But, Mama," her face brightened, "all the other frogs in the garden are bigger than Mr Larkins – I do not think he has a baby brother!"

"You are probably right, Grace," replied the mother. "Perhaps Mr Larkins does not have a baby brother after all…" she continued gravely, "However… I wonder if his mother and father have been looking for him…"

The two-year-old gasped, "Mr Larkins _has _mama… _and…_ papa?"

"Why, yes, Grace," her mother said, "_all_ creatures have mothers and fathers!"

"Oh no, oh no!" little Grace cried, "It would not do, Mama! Mr Larkins must go home to his mama and papa!"

Emma felt a glint of guilt for beguiling her child into giving up her frog, although it was not a complete falsehood that she had told; there were indeed other frogs in the garden, only she could not tell whether they were any of Mr Larkins' relations.

Grace slid down from the chair immediately, laid her small hands on her mother's soft arm beckoning with immense urgency, "Mama, Mama, let us set Mr Larkins free so he could find his family!"

Emma set her napkin down on the table, she was happy to oblige Grace, but as she pushed her chair back to stand, William began to cry.

"Oh, Grace…" she said, "William must be hungry, Mama needs to tend your baby brother first…"

"But Mama, Mr Larkins wants to go home! He has not seen his mama and papa for _three _days! He misses them _so very_ much!" The child's insistent hands would not let go of her mother, "He cannot wait for William to finish his breakfast first!"

"But Grace… your baby brother…" The mother was torn. "If Mr Larkins cannot wait… perhaps Lucy could take you and him to the garden without me…"

"But I want _you_ to come, Mama… would not you come, Mama?"

George, who had been listening with devotion to the discourse at the breakfast table, amused by the way his wife charmed their daughter into willingly setting her frog free, realized the dilemma Emma was in, suddenly saw an opportunity…

"Emma, why do not I take Grace and Mr Larkins to the garden?" he interposed as he left his seat and came near Emma and Grace.

"But you have the parish meeting this morning at the Crown, George…" said Emma.

"I have received a note from Elton this morning, he is stricken with a feverish cold, shall be confined for the rest of the day, and Weston and Cole are still in Oxfordshire for the fight between Cribb and the American*. Otway and I shall be the only ones at the meeting but it would not begin for another two hours as Otway has a meeting with a client this morning."

"Then," Emma felt relieved, speaking to Grace, "your father shall take you and Mr Larkins to the garden, Grace."

"Yay!" the two-year-old clapped her hands in glee, "Papa is coming with us! Come, Lucky, let us go fetch Mr Larkins!"

As soon as their bubbling child left the parlour with her nursemaid, Emma turned back to George.

She studied the dark shadows under his eyes with concerns. "You look fatigued, George…" she touched her soft hand on his cheek, caressing it tenderly, "have you not been sleeping well?"

George covered Emma's hand with his and smiled at her. "I am well, Emma. Just a little fatigued, that is all." He heard their son's cries grew louder, and he gently brought her soft palm to his lips. "Do not worry on my account, my love. Our son needs you, pray, go to him."

~o~o~E~o~o~M~o~o~M~o~o~A~o~o~

With a basket and a frog and a lotus leaf in tow, the father and his bouncy two-year-old had reached the garden and to the side of the pond. He laid the basket on the ground for Grace.

Carefully lifting the lid off the basket, little Grace peered inside and said to her frog very kindly, "Was the journey uncomfortable, Mr Larkins?"

_Blink…_

"I am glad you did not mind the journey…"

_Frown…_

"Oh... but you miss the pond?"

_Crock…crock..._

"I am sorry!" she said shame-facedly, "I should not have kept you from the pond for so long… and from your mama and papa, too!"

_Crock…_

"Pray, do not be upset, Papa and I are here to set you free!" her face brightened by the thought.

_Blink… frown…_

"Oh, you shall miss me? Thank you, Mr Larkins! We are good friends, are not we?"

_Crock… _

"I shall miss you, too! But you and your family should be together. Do not be sad, I shall come visit you every day, I promise!"

_Blink… blink…_

"You better go home now; your mama and papa must be waiting for you…"

With the help of her father, Grace laid the basket to its side on the ground and removed the lid completely. In two seconds, Mr Larkins leapt out of the basket, but not without turning round to crock at his human friend one last time.

_Splash…_

"Take care, Mr Larkins!" little Grace called aloud, waving her hands in the air as her friend reappeared from the water, bounced into the flower bushes, and then into the woods.

"You _will_ come back the morrow… will not you?" She had cranked her neck searching for the shadow of her frog to no avail.

Her father, who had been watching her bidding farewell to her frog, said gently, "You have been very kind to Mr Larkins, Grace."

"Mr Larkins is a good frog, Papa!"

"Will you miss him?"

"Hum, hum," she nodded. "But children should not be kept away from their family, Papa. Mr Larkins should be with his mama and papa, like William and I!"

George felt very proud of Grace; at times he could hardly believe that his little girl was not even three years of age.

They watched for signs of Mr Larkins in the flower bushes silently for a moment.

"Grace…" he thought it was time to bring up what had been on his mind since last night, "There is something…"

"_Oooooh_!" A gasp burst out of little Grace. "_Heartsease!"_ she cooed.

_"…that Papa wishes to… speak… with… you…" _George's words were lost on his lips as he watched his child dashing away to the flower patches. He had prepared a speech for the occasion, but, now, he had to wait to give her that speech.

Though his two-year-old could run fast for her age, the father had much longer legs, and in a few long strides, he was beside her.

"Mama loves heartsease, Papa!" little Grace said cheerfully, bobbing up and down gathering the beautiful tri-colour flowers.

"I am going to make a posy for Mama…" One by one, she placed the flowers in the palm of her small hand, encircling the green stems to form a nosegay.

"This one is for Mama… and this is for William…" she inserted another stem of heartsease in her palm, then looked up to the sound of the nearby chirpings above her, "Good morning Birdie," merrily, she greeted the sparrow perching on the tree branch, "how are you this morning? Do you like the flowers I have for Mama and William?" showing him the lovely bouquet in her hand.

George was smiling too; he loved watching his children, and he loved seeing how happy his little Grace was.

"Papa," the two-year-old came running to her father with a radiant smile, "do you like my flowers?"

"Of course I like your flowers, Grace! And I am sure your mother will love them as well!"

The child beamed at her father, then darted off to hand the posy to her maid before running to the flower patch on the opposite side.

She gathered a single daisy from the patch and ran back.

"This is for you, Papa!"

The father smiled endearingly, lifting his precious little girl up in his arms. "It is _beautiful_, Grace!" he glowed, pressing a tender kiss on one of her ruddy cheeks.

"Would you put it on for Papa?" he asked.

"Like the way Mama does?"

"Yes!"

Little Grace carefully threading the stem of the golden daisy through the buttonhole on her father's lapel, she was so focus that her eyes nearly crossed.

As George watched Grace's little fingers work, he began to speak with her.

"Grace…"

"_Yes_… _Pa…pa_…" she uttered distractedly.

"You love your mother very much, do not you?"

"Oh _yes_!" the two-year-old tore her sparkling eyes from the daisy temporarily and grinned at her father. "I love Mama more than _anything _in the _whole_ world!" And she stretched out her arms to show how big the world was to her father.

But her attention was soon given back to the daisy and the buttonhole.

"And do you know who else loves your mother more than anything in the world?" asked the father.

"_E-r-r_…" she muttered absently, and winced as she nearly broke the stem.

"Grace…" he prompted.

The two-year-old was silent, completely absorbed in her own world.

But when the daisy was securely fastened on her father's lapel, there was a burst of joy from little Grace.

"You look handsome, Papa!" she declared, smiling grandly at her father.

The father raised an amused eyebrow, his eyes twinkling, "What do _you_ know about handsome, Grace? You are only a little girl!"

"_Of course_ I know handsome, Papa!" the two-year-old said a-matter-of-factly. "Mama always tells me and William that you are the _handsomest_ gentleman in the _world!_"

George broke into chuckles – Emma knew how embarrassed he felt when she commended on his appearance, which was why she had refrained from giving him the compliment in front of him. But little did he know that she had been quite liberal with such compliment in front of their children!

Little Grace watched her father's merriment with an innocent smile.

George soon composed himself, and now that he had Grace's attention, he thought it was time to return to his question.

"Speaking of your mother, who _else _besides you loves your mother more than anything in the world, Grace?"

"_You_ – Papa!" Grace replied instantly. "_You_ love Mama more than _anything_ in the _world_!"

_That was the perfect answer! – _George thought, without a doubt.

"Now, Grace," he said, "when you love someone as much as you love your mother, you must wish to be with the person, would not you?"

"I wish to be with Mama _all _the time!"

"And do you think Papa, who loves your mother just as much, would wish to be with your mother the way you do?"

"Of course!"

"But if we both wish to be with your mother all the time, what are we to do, Grace?"

"We _share_, Papa!"

"Precisely!" the father could not be more pleased, "We could share your mother!" he thought the idea was brilliant.

"Like the way I share Mama with William!"

"Not quite, Grace. You share your mother with William during the day, but Papa is often out tending our tenants or the home-farm or having meetings with Mr Larkins or on parish matters in those hours." George saw that Grace was listening to him intently, "Papa is thinking more of the nights, Grace. Since you are with your mother during the day, perhaps…"

"We could share Mama at night!" suggested the two-year-old enthusiastically.

George could not believe his ears – how extraordinary to hear his two-year-old make such remarkable suggestion!

"Does it mean that you would let your mother stay with Papa at night?" he asked, with high hopes.

The two-year-old thought for a brief moment, "Hum, hum!" she nodded with shinning hazel eyes.

"Is that a promise?" He wished to be certain.

"Yes, a promise!" Little Grace smiled as brightly as the sun in the sky. But something behind her father suddenly caught her attention, she froze...

"_Rabbit!"_ she gasped, "_Rabbit…_ Papa… _rabbit!_" The ebullient child was shrilling and squirming in her papa's arms.

As soon as her father lowered her to the ground, the two-year-old darted off after the rabbit, and her maid Lucy darted off after her.

George watched Grace dashing through the flower bushes with a contented sigh of relief. He had not thought that it would be so simple, almost effortless, to persuade his daughter into giving up her mother at night. He was prepared to spend a considerable amount of time to help her understand that she was old enough to sleep through the night without her mother, or that she needed to comfort herself to sleep after she awakened at night, without having to explain that her father and mother needed their time together alone. He thought his child was exceptional as he needed not say more than it was necessary and she was already of the same mind as his. How wrong he was to have doubted the ability of his two-year-old to subject to reasons, how presumptuous of him to think that Grace would have a difficult time understanding his meaning!

* * *

_***** Tom Cribb was a famous English bare-knuckle boxer and champion in early 19th century. His first match with American Tom Molineaux took place on December 1810 at Shenington Oxfordshire, second match was a year later, and he won in both. Even though both fights took place much earlier than this story, it was either using the match with the American in Oxfordshire in 1810 or the exhibition matches in Wales with another boxing champion Tom Spring in 1819, which was the right time frame for my story but TOO far for Weston and Cole to travel to, I didn't think Mrs Weston and Mrs Cole would have llked their husbands to be gone so long :D, so I took the liberty to alter the year of the match between Cribb and Molineaux to suit my story. _


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